


The Realm of You

by hope_in_the_dark



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ...ish. A bakery is close enough right?, Alternate Title: Crowley Has So Many Freckles and Az Loses His Mind, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Bisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Freckles, Gen, I'm going to try to keep this as Soft (TM) as possible, M/M, more tags to come as they become relevant!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_in_the_dark/pseuds/hope_in_the_dark
Summary: Az Fell moved out of London for a change of pace. He's expecting a sleepy village, a bookshop to call his own, and a taste of the quiet life.He isn't expecting to fall face-first in love with the town baker, but that's what happens anyway.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 546
Kudos: 469
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Scones

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! 
> 
> I'm back on my Human AU bullshit. Crowley's a baker, Az is a bookseller. They fall in love. And for once, I'm going to try to keep this a) really really soft, so not my usual angsty fare, and b) short. No novels this time! It'll be a relatively short multi-chapter, and that's a promise. As always, this neck of the woods is Ace Central!
> 
> I won't take up too much of your time here, but a few quick notes: I do not own Good Omens, its characters or dialogue, or anything else proprietary that might be mentioned in this story. The "T" rating is for language - I curse a lot, and so does Crowley. Also, my forever promise of happy endings will hold true for this fic. It'll pretty much be happy all the way along, in this case. 
> 
> I'll let you get to it! Thanks for stopping by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have no life but this,  
> To lead it here;  
> Nor any death, but lest  
> Dispelled from there; 
> 
> Nor tie to earths to come,  
> Nor action new,  
> Except through this extent,  
> The realm of you." 
> 
> -Emily Dickinson

The first things Az noticed when he opened the door were freckles. Lots and _lots_ of freckles, all dotted across the face of a stranger like the many tiny brush strokes of a Monet. Az thought it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and the feeling only grew when he noticed that the man had eyes the color of honey behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Unruly auburn curls were pulled backward, falling free in chunks from a loose bun. The stranger was tall, too; he was standing on the sidewalk, a few steps down from the door to Az’s shop, and his face was still at Az’s eye level.

It took several moments longer than it should have for Az to realize that the man wasn’t the only person at the door. A young woman with dark eyes and hair and skin was standing at his side, and she was grinning up at Az with one eyebrow raised.

“Hello,” Az said, having become uncomfortably aware that he’d been staring for a time that far exceeded polite standards. “May I help you?”

The man made a noise that sounded like all the consonant letters from the alphabet crushed together and said, “Scones.”

Az blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“Hi,” the woman said with a laugh, jabbing her elbow into her companion’s ribs. “I’m Anathema, and this is Crowley. We own the bakery down the street. We saw you moving around the place earlier and thought you might like a little welcome gift.”

The man – Crowley – cleared his throat and offered Az a shy smile before climbing the stairs and pushing a gingham cloth covered basket into Az’s hands.

“It’s scones,” mumbled Crowley, the skin of his cheeks beneath his freckles turning redder than his hair. “Ana put some jam and cream in there ‘s well.”

“Thank you.” 

Crowley’s blush deepened, and he bounced forward onto the balls of his feet for a moment before sticking a (delightfully freckled) hand out. Az tucked the basket between his arm and his hip, freeing up a hand of his own and sliding it into Crowley’s. 

_Goodness_ , the man’s hand was warm. 

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Crowley said. He gave Az’s hand a firm squeeze and a quick shake, and then he tucked both of his hands into the front pockets of his very tight dark jeans and slunk down the steps. 

If Az’s voice was slightly shaky on his second “Thank you,” neither Crowley nor Anathema saw fit to point it out. 

“Come by the shop sometime,” Anathema said cheerily. “Coffee’s on the house your first time in.” 

“If the scones are any good, my dear, I’ll certainly be in on a fairly regular basis,” Az said, his brain finally having remembered how to make conversation outside of ‘thank you’. “I had a few favorite places in London, and I’m missing them already.” 

“They’ll be good.” Crowley’s voice was dark and smoky, and Az had the sudden desire to taste the lips that were currently stretching into a cocky smirk. 

“I think I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” 

Anathema snorted and bumped Crowley’s arm with her shoulder. “He’s a skeptic. I like him.” 

“Shut it.” 

“No, no, really.” Anathema grinned at Az again. “You’re welcome to come ‘round the shop any time, of course, but I’ll start giving you free biscuits if you keep having Crowley on about his baking skills. He’s got a big head. We all could use someone to talk him down from that seven-story horse he’s gotten used to riding around on.” 

Crowley looked at Anathema like he was debating the merits of shoving her into oncoming traffic, so Az laughed and took pity on him. 

“He might have earned that horse. We’ll have to see.” 

“Thanks, mate,” Crowley said drily.

“Be nice, Crowley. He’s new – we want him to like us before he realizes that he should hate us.” Anathema looked up at Az and winked, and he smiled back at her. 

“You’ve just told him that he should hate us,” Crowley pointed out. “Good going.” 

“Fuck,” Anathema said. She pointed at Az. “Forget I said that.” 

“It’s forgotten.” Az’s heart shouldn’t have jumped at the way Crowley’s smirk spread into a smile, but it had never been much good at following rules, so it jumped anyway. 

“Good man,” Anathema said. “Deserving of scones, I’d say.” 

The smile on Crowley’s face widened. His beautiful sharp cheekbones reddened again, and he looked straight at Az and said, “He _might_ be. Guess I’ll be the judge of that.” 

Fuck’s sake, those eyes. 

“I guess you will,” Az said cheekily. 

Crowley certainly hadn’t shivered at that. That wasn’t possible. Trick of the light, that was all.

“I _like_ you,” Anathema said again. “Anyway. Welcome to Alton.” 

“Enjoy the scones,” said Crowley. When he smiled again, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, and the bones in Az’s legs turned to rubber. 

“Thank you,” Az managed to say. “Goodnight.” 

Az closed the door and made his way through the rows of empty shelves and cardboard boxes that were stacked up to the height of his shoulder, the basket of scones still tucked under his arm. He made his way up the creaky stairs to his flat, setting the basket down on the small table in his kitchen. 

Halfway through the second of Crowley’s dozen scones (which, he had to admit, were some of the best things he’d ever eaten in his life), Az realized that he hadn’t introduced himself. 

“‘I’m Az Fell,’” Az muttered to himself as he took an overly aggressive bite of jam-covered scone. “That isn’t a difficult thing to weave into a conversation. Now he d– now _they_ don’t know your name, you completely and utterly besotted fool.” 

Az had been doing the same nightly routine for as long as he could remember. He changed into his pyjamas, brewed himself a cup of tea, and settled down into bed with a book. Tonight it was John Milton. _Paradise Lost,_ one of Az’s favorites. He’d taught an entire course on it at University College, and he’d reached for it on his first night in Alton almost on reflex. There was something comforting about knowing a story forward and backward and having favorite verses and stanzas on his mind’s back burner for whenever he wanted to revisit them. _Paradise_ was a friend made of paper and ink, and Az had always been able to slip between the pages and walk through the Garden any time he liked. 

Any time, apparently, but tonight. 

Az had read the same page six times over, his thoughts stubbornly refusing to stay focused on the story. They were turned instead toward sharp cheekbones and freckles in dense clusters and amber-colored eyes, to rough voices and warm hands and tongue-touched grins. With a sigh, Az slipped a ribbon between the pages of his book and set it gently on the bedside table. 

“Tomorrow, old friend,” Az whispered, patting its leather cover with a perfectly manicured hand. It seemed that Crowley was going to be a rather inconvenient thing. 

*********

Anathema was leaning against the counter and batting her pretty eyelashes at a twiggy red-faced young man when Az walked into Bentley’s. She looked up at the tinkling of the bell, moving away from the boy she’d been shamelessly flirting with. The young man, Az noticed with a smile, looked a bit like someone had recently dropped an anvil on his head. 

“Hey! Bookshop bloke. G’morning to you.” 

“Good morning,” Az said. “And I do apologize, my dear – I was quite out of sorts the other day, you see, and it would appear that I forgot to introduce myself.” 

“You did.”

“I’m Az Fell.” Az stuck out a hand, and Anathema took it. 

“Interesting name.” 

One of Az’s eyebrows jumped into an arch before he could think to stop it.

“Mine’s a family name,” Anathema explained. “Some great-great-great-grandmother of mine had a vision that she’d have a descendant named Anathema, and here I am.” 

“Ana’s family is batshit,” said a disembodied voice. Dark-sounding, rough in all the right places. Crowley. 

A messy pile of red curls came into view a few moments later, emerging through the doorway that Az could only assume connected the business part of the bakery to the actual baking part. The rest of Crowley followed in short order, clad in dark clothes that toed the line of obscenely tight. 

“Hello,” Az said. Distantly, he wondered when his tongue had become too large for his mouth. 

“Hiya.” Crowley grabbed a white waist apron off of a hook by the door, wrapping it around his slinky hips and tying it with deft fingers. “Didn’t catch your name, but I heard Ana telling you where hers came from, so I can only assume yours was said.” 

“Az.” Single words only, then. 

Crowley made his way over to a very expensive-looking silver espresso machine. He twisted his neck backwards to look at Az, something silver shining in his golden eyes again. 

“Not a common name, that.” 

“No,” said Az. 

Anathema cleared her throat, drawing Az’s attention away from whatever Crowley’s beautiful hands were doing with those little metal cups. 

“What can we do you for? Coffee’s free this time – we keep our promises – but you’ve got to order something to go with it.” 

“Ah,” Az said eloquently, bending over to look into one of the glass display cases. “What do you recommend?” 

“The scones are good.” Crowley had slipped over to stand next to Anathema, and he was peering through the glass at Az. 

Az’s face turned a very violent shade of red in an alarmingly short amount of time. He made a series of less-than-confident noises before landing on “They were, yes. Possibly the best I’ve ever had.” 

When Crowley laughed, the skin at the corner of his eyes folded into pretty creases. It made his freckles pinch up and come together in places, and Az was overcome by the vehement belief that Crowley really ought to wear sunglasses. Too distracting, those eyes. 

“I told you,” Crowley said to Anathema, knocking his hip into her side as he walked. 

Anathema groaned. “You realize that he’s going to be insufferable now, don’t you, Az? Honestly. I have to _live_ with this man.” 

The warm feeling that had started in Az’s gut and had been spreading through his body from there lost its heat source. 

“O-oh?” That sounded desperate and disappointed and a whole bucketload of other words that served as proof that Az was pathetic. Pathetic and a _fool,_ and all of that in public. Fuck. 

“He’s my best friend. Nightmare to live with, really, but he makes good coffee and lets my boyfriend borrow his dressing gown.” 

The scrawny bloke who had been blushing the color of a ripe tomato when Az had walked in made a squeaking sound. Az found that his body was quite warm again, the creeping cold feeling having vanished as quickly as it had come. 

“Ah,” Az said. “Hello. I take it you’re the boyfriend.” 

The bloke squeaked again, looking at Anathema with too-wide eyes. 

“That’s Newt,” said Anathema. “He didn’t know he was my boyfriend, evidently.” 

“It’s cool,” Newt mumbled. “That’s… good, yeah. You’re my– my _girlfriend_.” 

Crowley leaned over the second glass display case and flicked Newt on the head. “Congrats, you’ve finally tuned into the right channel. Now get lost. You’re late for work.” 

“Shit,” Newt said. He muttered something about having a nice day and it having been nice to make Az’s acquaintance as he sprinted for the door. 

“You should buy him a watch for his birthday,” Crowley said to Anathema, reaching into the display case with a pair of tongs. He pulled out two scones (a plain one and one that looked to have some kind of dark-colored fruit mixed in) and placed them into a white paper bag, which he took over to the register. 

“ _You_ should stop reminding him about when his shift starts and let him be late every once in a while.” 

“Two pounds twenty,” Crowley said with a pointed glare at his best friend. “And look, if he’s going to be hanging around, he’s pitching in for groceries. Which means he needs money, which means he needs a job. So I’ll be his damn nanny, because you’re not exactly jumping at the opportunity.”

Anathema hopped onto her tip toes and pressed a chaste kiss to Crowley’s cheek. 

“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m getting more muffins.” 

“Oi, wait– hold on, Ana, that was an invitation for _you_ to be his child-minder, not me!” When the only reply was the sound of snorting laughter, Crowley sighed and turned back to the register. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, giving Az a half-smile that did funny things to the organs beneath Az’s ribs. “Two pounds twenty.” 

Az stared at him. “What?” 

“Scones.” Crowley shoved the white bag across the counter. 

“I didn’t order–” 

“You said they were good. Gave you a blueberry one to try today. On the house, of course.” 

“I– you–” Az spluttered. He spent a moment rifling through his growing mental list of questions before giving up and chucking them into the metaphorical bin. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” Crowley looked at him expectantly “Ehm. Two pounds, twenty pence.” 

“Right.” In a vain attempt to hide the embarrassed blush that was creeping over his cheeks, Az dropped his head and busied himself with digging through his pockets for his wallet. 

“Thanks,” Crowley said, accepting the few crumpled up notes and a small assortment of coins that Az had managed to fumble his way into finding. “Staying in to eat, or going?” 

“Er.” Staying meant staring at Crowley and probably doing something like dropping half of a perfectly good scone onto the floor or choking on air, so. “Going. Lots to do, you know. Setting up the shop.” 

“I know.” 

“Ah.” 

Crowley nudged the pastry bag with a long finger. “Scones, Az.” 

There was no hiding the blush this time. “ _Bother._ Of course. Yes.” 

“You okay?” 

“Absolutely,” Az said, snatching the bag off of the counter. “Definitely. Thank you for the scones, Crowley.” 

“Enjoy ‘em.” 

And then Az opened his big mouth and said, “See you tomorrow,” and Crowley’s answering smile made the air in his lungs disappear. 

He didn’t even make it halfway down the block when Crowley caught up to him. 

“Coffee,” Crowley said. “You forgot it.” 

Az Fell had never been a coffee drinker. It was terribly bitter and usually too hot, and he had always been of the belief that only psychopaths drank the stuff black. Az was the type of man to go to a coffee shop and order tea ten times out of ten. In fact, to the best of his recollection, the last time that a cup of coffee had been in his hand had been the first time he’d tried it. 

And yet here he was, giving Crowley a soft smile and taking the cardboard cup from his hand. 

“Thank you,” Az said again. 

“See you tomorrow.” 

When Az had said that, it had sounded like an accident because it had been one. It didn’t sound accidental when Crowley said it. It had finality, gravity. It became a certain thing, something to count on, and Az’s stupidly hopeful heart jumped into his throat. 

“Tomorrow,” Az said to Crowley’s retreating back, far too softly for Crowley to hear. 

The blueberry scone was even better than the plain one, which meant that Az was completely and utterly fucked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea for Crowley's freckles partly because freckles are kisses from angels, but mostly because I was looking at [Brock Elbank's](https://www.instagram.com/mrelbank/?hl=en) "Freckles" portraits. [This](https://www.instagram.com/p/6p62NlQptK/?igshid=cqx6cxfgyqpf) one in particular inspired this version of Crowley. 
> 
> Also, [here](https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/tea_time_scones_77839) is a link to a trusty British scones recipe!


	2. Pain au Chocolat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Az is repainting the walls of the bookshop, and Crowley is volunteered by Anathema to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are y'all ready for some completely ridiculous flirting and banter? Good, because that's all this chapter is. 
> 
> I don't have a whole lot of notes on this chapter other than to say that I hope everyone is doing as well as possible given the circumstances! If you're not, feel free to give me a shout on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hope-inthedark)! Also: I saw all of y'all's AMAZING comments on the last chapter; I'm still catching up on answering my backlog, but please know that I have read and cherished every one of them! Comments make my year, folks. 
> 
> Warnings: language (because hi, have we met, my name's Hope and I have the mouth of a well-educated sailor)

“You have blue paint in your hair.” Crowley’s eyes were twinkling behind his glasses, and Az’s heart thumped with particular force in his chest. 

“Do I?” Absently, Az reached up and ran a hand through his curls, wincing slightly when his fingers caught on droplets of dried paint. “Oh. So I do.” 

Served him right for not looking in a mirror before leaving the shop.

Crowley made a funny noise in the back of his throat. “Nice shade of blue, though. Could dye your hair that color, wouldn’t look bad.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“I’m not. I mean, uh. Your hair’s– good, as it is. Yeah. It’s nice. Suits you. But you could go blue with it and you’d still– it’d still be good.” Crowley’s cheeks were turning a very fetching shade of red beneath his freckles. He coughed slightly, turning his face away from Az. “Never mind. Stupid. What’ll you have?” 

“It’s not stupid,” Az said quickly. “Really, thank you.” 

“Sure. Sorry for– not great with words all the time. Sorry.” 

“Please don’t apologize,” Az said, sounding a bit more desperate than he’d intended. “It’s really– it’s fine. Nice, even.” 

Crowley laughed. “God, that wasn’t _nice_ , it was a mess. I’m not often described as nice, and there’s a reason for that.” 

_Bullshit,_ Az thought firmly, but he settled on a smile that was shaking with nerves as he said, “Well. Thank you anyway.” 

“No problem.” Crowley’s eyes were back on Az’s again, and Az had to stop himself from saying something very stupid like _Goodness, you’re gorgeous._ “Ngh, uh. You’ll want tea, I’m assuming? Got a preference on kind?” 

Right. This was a bakery, and Az had come here under the pretense of breakfast. He’d started ordering tea the day after Crowley had handed him a free coffee (which he had made an effort to drink but had ended up pouring down the drain after a few horrible-tasting sips), and in the weeks since, Crowley and Anathema had both caught on to his beverage preferences. 

“Darjeeling, I think,” Az said as the door to the kitchen swung open. Anathema winked at him as she reached for an apron. “What would you recommend in the way of a baked item this morning?” 

“Muffin?” Crowley asked. “Got banana ones today.” 

“Lovely,” said Az, very aware that he’d have had the same answer regardless of what Crowley had said. 

Funny thing, that. He’d had preferences on things in London. He liked fruit danishes better than cheese ones and thought that Portuguese pasteis de nata were leaps and bounds better than British custard tarts. Lemon and poppyseed muffins were his favorite on an ordinary basis, but a good double-chocolate muffin could make his entire day. Az had a mile-long mental list of baked goods ranked in order by how much he liked them, but something about Crowley’s eyes and face and voice and hands made him forget that the list existed. 

Az pushed a five-pound note across the counter and told Crowley to keep the change, his stomach doing a series of funny turns at the slow way Crowley’s smile moved across his lips. It didn’t stop flipping until Az settled himself down at a small table, his hands laced across his stomach. 

“You have paint in your hair,” Anathema said by way of greeting. She slid a cup of tea and a muffin onto the table. 

“I know.” 

“ _Why_ do you have paint in your hair?” 

Az rolled his eyes and reached for the muffin. “Why do you think? I’m changing the color of the walls of the bookshop.” 

“You’re painting the bookshop blue?” Anathema dropped into the seat across from Az. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“I _like_ blue.” 

Anathema made a considering noise. “Fair enough, I suppose.” 

The muffin was halfway to Az’s lips when Crowley’s laugh rang out across the bakery. Az turned to look and found Crowley shaking his beautiful head at a customer as he slid a slice of lemon drizzle cake into a bag. The last breathy remnants of a laugh were caught on Crowley’s lovely lips, the skin at the corners of his eyes still ribbed with smile lines. 

Az wanted to make Crowley look like that every day for the rest of his life. He knew that it was a completely absurd thing to think, but there it was anyway. 

“Do you need help?” Anathema sounded very amused, and when Az looked at her again, one dark eyebrow was arched and a little smirk was tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

“With what?” 

“Painting.” 

Az nibbled on the top of his muffin. “I– actually, yes. That would be wonderful.” 

“Great,” Anathema said, her smirk deepening. 

And then she yelled, “Crowley!” and Az promptly choked on his most recent bite of muffin. 

“What?” Crowley’s head appeared over the espresso machine. 

“Get your arse over here.” 

“I’m– Ana, I’m literally _making a customer’s coffee._ Can it wait?” 

With a heavy sigh, Anathema swung her legs around and got to her feet, crossing over to the counter. She walked around it and turned on the sink, saying something to Crowley that Az couldn’t quite hear over the sound of running water and frothing milk. 

Crowley made a rude hand gesture in Anathema’s direction before hopping over the counter. He didn’t walk so much as saunter, his hips swinging in a way that did funny things to Az’s insides. 

“Ana says you need help painting your bookshop,” Crowley said, coming to a stop next to Az’s table. There were mere inches between their legs, and Az could practically feel the gentle warmth radiating from Crowley’s body. The air between them felt dense and ribbed with live wires. 

“I’m sorry,” Az said, setting the remaining few bites of his muffin back on his plate. His tea was getting cold, surely, but he couldn’t be bothered to care much about that at all. “I thought that she was volunteering. I didn’t know she’d ask you.” 

“It’s fine.” Crowley’s eyes were soft and full of hesitation, only resting on Az’s for a fleeting fraction of a moment. “Do you… do you need help, though?” 

“I can manage on my own. It would certainly go quicker with some assistance, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine.” 

The easy curve of Crowley’s lips flattened into a line. “Right. You don’t want– I should, er. Get back to the coffee.” 

Before Az could think better of it, he said, “I _do_ want.” Much too loudly, much too quickly. Much, _much_ too enthusiastically. 

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Oh?” 

“Yes. Help would be, ah. Good. If you’re willing, of course.” 

“I’m willing.” 

Az gave Crowley a wide smile and tried very hard not to think about how quickly _Crowley_ had answered _him_. No use getting his hopes up. Not yet. 

“Thank you.” 

Crowley grunted. “Welcome. I get done here at half-five, and then I’ve got to go home and grab an old shirt that I can get paint on, so I can be over around six. Maybe a bit after.” 

“Six sounds fine,” Az said. Eight hours’ time between interactions with Crowley was somehow too long and not nearly long enough. 

“Right.” Crowley’s long fingers tapped out a chaotic beat against his thighs. “Six, then.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll, erm. Be there.” 

“Good,” said Az, unable to keep his cheeks from pinkening. 

“Good, yeah.” Crowley stood there for a few moments longer, still twitching his hands in a way that made Az want to grab them and never let go. “Mnh. I should, uh.” 

“Coffee,” Az said with a nod. 

“Yeah.” Crowley’s fingers stilled, slipping into his pockets. “See you later.”

Az finished his muffin in silence. The fire under his cheeks didn’t go out or even start to cool. The muffin was delicious (because of course it was, Crowley had made it), but Az hardly noticed. He was too caught up thinking about having to spend hours alone with Crowley. Crowley and Az, alone in the bookshop. Specks of blue on top of brown freckles. Warm eyes lighting up with smiles and laughter. Gorgeous hands brushing new paint across white walls. 

Crowley, in all of his tongue-heavying, heart-stuttering, gut-churning beautifulness, would be standing in Az’s half-finished mess of a bookshop, and Az would have to find a way to keep his stupid mouth from saying everything he was thinking. 

Distracted, Az drank his tea without cream or sugar, not minding in the slightest that it was lukewarm at best. He stacked his tea cup on top of the now empty muffin plate, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin, and got to his feet. 

When Anathema winked and blew him a kiss as he walked out the door, Az made the conscious decision to ignore her. Ridiculous small town people with their meddling and their flirting and their teasing and their _stupidly_ attractive freckly bakers. 

“We,” Az said to himself with a sigh, “are very much not in Kansas anymore.” 

*********

There was a knock on the bookshop door at a quarter to six. Az tugged on the hem of his shirt and made a point of checking his reflection in a mirror as he made his way to the front of the shop. 

Az opened the door with false confidence, already halfway into a greeting. “You’re earl– _guh_.” 

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. A bloody vest top. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Ana offered to clean up tonight, so I went home right after closing and got changed. Is that, uh. Is that okay?” 

“Perfectly.” Az’s brain was dark. If someone had been inside, they might have heard something suspiciously similar to the sound a computer makes when it’s overheated. Vest top. A fucking vest top. Crowley had freckles on his shoulders. “Tickety-boo. Absolutely.” 

Crowley shifted onto his toes and fell back again, his handsomely crooked smile sending Az’s heart into high gear. “Tickety-boo?” 

“It’s a saying,” Az said with a sniff. “People say it.” 

“Which people?” 

_No one,_ Az’s brain supplied helpfully. 

“People,” he said instead. 

Crowley was grinning, the bastard. Az wanted to kiss him. 

“Right,” said Crowley slowly. “Planning to let me in, Az?” 

“Wh– yes, _yes_ , of course. Do come in.” 

Crowley crossed over the threshold in one long step, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. His eyes skated over the room, moving from wall to shelf to table. He kept smiling. 

“Nice place.” 

“It will be,” Az said, wiping his palms on his shirt. When had they gotten so sweaty?

“Already is.” 

Crowley had been inside of Az’s shop for less than ten seconds and Az’s mind was already sauntering in the direction of warm hands and beautiful lips and the way red curls would feel under his fingers. It was going to be a very long night. 

So Az fell back on his usual “Thank you,” and led Crowley over to a half-finished wall. 

“The primer’s done,” Az said. “There should be an extra paint roller and tray against that shelf, and the buckets are over on the dropcloths on the register.” 

“Okay,” Crowley said, pushing his glasses up his nose with one finger and grabbing the empty paint tray off of the floor. 

With a slight shake of his head, Az picked up his own roller. 

“So,” Az called over his shoulder. “Is Crowley your name or your surname?” 

Crowley laughed, short and sharp, and Az turned to look at him. 

This was quickly revealed to be a mistake, because Crowley was lifting a paint can, and Az found himself staring at Crowley’s muscles. The ones on his upper back were showing through the fabric of his shirt, for fuck’s sake. How was a man supposed to function with Crowley doing _that?_

The sight of Crowley’s muscular back (and triceps – dear God, was the fellow even _human?_ ) prompted the basest parts of Az’s brain to tell his mouth to make a high-pitched squeaking noise. This in turn startled Crowley enough that he spun around to face Az, which meant that Az’s face turned approximately the color of a ripe tomato. 

“Gnh,” Crowley said, whipping his head back around to finish pouring the paint with a motion that made a small clump of curls come loose from his bun and fall into his face. “It’s my surname, technically. But I’ve not gone by anything else since primary school, so.” 

“Right,” Az said, feeling more than a little bit dizzy. He returned his attention to the wall. 

“Been wondering about your name, too,” Crowley said off-handedly. Az could practically hear the swing of Crowley’s hips in the sound of his footsteps. Crowley sidled up next to Az, screwing his roller onto an extension. 

Fuck. Az was honestly expected to stand here and paint this wall and _not_ goggle at the way Crowley’s arms looked when he stretched them over his head? He should get some sort of award for his self restraint. 

“You have?” Az asked, hating himself for the tremor in his voice. 

“Yeah.” The foam rollers swished softly over the wall. “Shop says ‘A.Z. Fell.’ Separate letters. But you introduce yourself as Az, so I was wondering: nickname or acronym?” 

“That’s–” Az tried to keep his surprise to a minimum. “That’s very observant of you, Crowley.” 

“Not really,” Crowley protested, and Az had the sneaking suspicion that he was the type of person who didn’t readily accept compliments. He’d gotten defensive when Az had called him ‘nice’ earlier, too. “Which is it, though? ‘M curious.” 

“Truth be told, I’m not entirely sure.” 

Crowley laughed again. Longer this time, brighter. 

“How the hell can you not be sure? It’s your name, innit?” 

“Yes, obviously. It’s just… well, my full name is quite a mouthful, and I never really liked it. Az was just easier.” 

There was a beat of silence before Crowley snorted and said, “You can’t leave it there. What’s your full name, then?” 

“You can’t laugh.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Give me your word, or I’ll never say another thing on this topic.” 

“Consider my word given.” 

Az raised an eyebrow. “A man’s only as good as his word, you know.” 

“I know,” Crowley said with a cheeky grin that tugged at Az’s heartstrings. 

“Fine.” A breath. “Aziraphale Zechariah.” 

The noise that Crowley made was definitely a laugh that had merely gotten tangled on his tongue on the way out of his mouth. He stared at Az, golden eyes wide and glinting with silver. 

“You’re joking,” Crowley finally managed to say, swallowing another laugh. 

“I’m really not.” 

“Sorry for asking,” Crowley said in a way that made it clear that he was quite the opposite of apologetic, “but did your parents hate you?” 

“What? No.” 

“Then what’s with the–” Crowley gestured with one blue-spattered hand. “You know.” 

“My family is very religious, and I’m my parents’ only child. They… well, I suppose they rather went for broke with my name, didn’t they?” 

Crowley did laugh, then, and Az found that it didn’t bother him at all. 

“Quite.” 

“So you see what I mean when I say I’m not sure,” Az said, picking up his empty paint tray and making his way over to the cans. “My name could be a shortened version of my full name, or it could be an acronym. I don’t honestly remember which one it is.” 

“Well, I like it,” said Crowley. 

Az twisted around to get a look at Crowley’s face. It was mostly devoid of emotion, and Crowley seemed to be concentrating very hard on applying the paint in even layers. 

So much for clues on Crowley’s feelings, then. He was probably just being polite. 

“I didn’t always like it, but it’s grown on me.” 

Crowley shrugged. “Suits you.” 

It was Az’s turn to laugh. “Does it? I’m not certain if that’s a compliment.” 

Crowley’s high cheekbones turned the color of his hair, and he buried his face in the crook of his elbow. “Gah, fuck. It’s a compliment. You’re… different. Good kind of different.” 

“Oh?” 

“I’m shutting up now,” Crowley said firmly. “Definitely– yeah, for sure doing the shutting-up thing.” 

“We can pick a new topic.” 

“That might be a good idea, yeah.” 

Az walked back over to the wall, standing back a few feet to look at it. “This is nearly done. The one on the other side of this row of shelves is next – I put the cloths down earlier.” 

“Right,” Crowley said, flashing Az a grateful smile. 

They finished the last few patches on the wall without a further exchange of words, and Az found that he already missed the sound of Crowley’s voice. The bookshop hadn’t felt this empty since the day Az had moved into it; it was as though Az had finally found the thing that the shop was lacking, and it was sitting all bottled up inside of Crowley’s chest. 

“I promised you a topic change,” Az said when they were standing in front of the next unpainted wall. “What would you like to talk about? Favorite novel? Family or friends? Most embarrassing moment? Local town gossip? Scones? Ducks?” 

“Ducks?” Crowley was smiling again. 

“I’m afraid that might be the topic I know the least about, unfortunately.” 

“You know more about local Alton gossip than you do about ducks?” 

“But of course,” Az said, shooting Crowley a half-smile. “I met a delightful woman last week – Marjorie Potts, do you know her? – and she gave me a brief rundown of what's happening. Apparently, the young couple in the flat next to mine are expecting, so I suppose I'll be in the market for a good pair of earplugs.” 

“Ah, Madame Tracy. ‘Course I know her, everyone does. And yeah, that's smart. Good thinking ahead.” 

Az blinked at him. “Sorry, who?” 

“Marjorie’s got a bit of a Thing,” Crowley said, the capital letter audible in his inflection. “Does herself up once a week and holds seances in her flat. It’s how she gets all the best gossip, you know – apparently people will tell you anything if they think they’re talking to a dead relative.” 

“That’s _awful_.” 

Crowley grinned. “Nah. People from Alton go to her for the sole purpose of paying her five quid to listen to the shit they have on their neighbors. Only folks who’re out of town and incredibly gullible actually go to her seeking any sort of spiritual experience.” 

“It’s still… well, not truly awful, but definitely dishonest. Those poor tourists.” 

“Oi, watch it,” said Crowley. “Those poor tourists are going to keep your shop busy in the summer, just you wait.” 

Az sniffed. “I suppose I’ll have to stock something a bit less tasteful than my usual preferences come summer, then.” 

“I’m bringing a can over here to save us the trips back to the register,” Crowley said abruptly. “But do tell me what your particular preferences entail when I get back.” 

He came loping around the side of a shelf a few moments later, fingers wrapped around the wire handle of a new paint can. 

“I have a wide variety of genres that I enjoy,” Az said, trying not to stare at the way Crowley’s forearms flexed as he pried the lid off of the can. “Horror, poetry, epic poetry, plays, classic novels, biographies and autobiographies. Almost anything you can think of, really.” 

The corner of Crowley’s lip curled upward. “How about poorly written romance novels?” 

“Dear me, no.” 

“You know what I mean, don’t you?” Crowley asked as he poured more paint into both trays. “The kind you find in airport bookstores in the ‘Bestseller’ sections.” 

“Crowley, I am _begging_ you to tell me that you don’t read that rubbish.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Then why did you–” 

“Ana does,” Crowley said, chuckling at the way Az’s mouth dropped open. “Besides. Wanted to see how you’d react.” 

“You’re horrid.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

“Terrible.” 

“Again: I know.” 

“You’re…” Az trailed off, searching for an accurate descriptor. “You’re a _demon_.” 

Crowley pressed a paint-covered hand to his chest. “High praise! I’m touched.” 

“You shouldn’t be. It wasn’t a compliment.” 

“Not to you, maybe,” Crowley said. “But I’ll cherish it forever. And I’ll live that long, too, given that demons can’t really die.” 

“I’m regretting having started this,” sighed Az, not regretting it in the least. 

“Course you are. Demon, me.” 

“ _Damn_ you,” Az said. 

“Too late.” Az properly giggled at that, and Crowley’s grin widened. “Besides. ‘S not that bad when you get used to it.” 

Az reached up and pressed a hand over Crowley’s mouth. The odds that he was going to be able to stop himself from kissing Crowley were getting increasingly slim, so something had to be done. Covering Crowley’s mouth was the perfect thing to do, really; it served the dual purpose of being something that someone might do out of faux frustration with their conversational partner, and it stopped Az from silencing Crowley with an entirely different part of his body. 

Unfortunately, Az hadn’t considered the fact that Crowley would continue talking (and smiling, and laughing) underneath his hand, and the feeling of Crowley’s lips on his skin was permanently burned into Az’s brain in seconds. 

“You’re insufferable,” Az said softly. “Truly.” 

He dropped his hand back to his side, smiling slightly at the smudge of blue paint on Crowley’s cheek. 

“Hmnh. ‘S what they say, yeah.” 

“Anyway.” Az picked up his paint roller once more, very determinedly not looking in Crowley’s direction even though he could feel Crowley’s eyes on him. “There will not be any airport-bookshop-quality romance novels in my shop, thank you very much.” 

“Other kinds of romance novels, though?” Crowley hadn’t stopped staring at Az. 

“The sensible kind. Jane Austen, for example.” 

Crowley whistled. “You might want to stock up on those, actually. You know that we’re just down the road from Chawton House, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you been over there yet? The Jane Austen’s House Museum, I mean. It’s actually not all bad.” 

“A ringing endorsement,” Az said drily. “And no, I haven’t yet had the time.” 

“You have to go. You’d love it.” 

“I plan to, but I’d… I don’t know, I suppose I’d rather not go alone.” 

Crowley stopped painting, and Az felt Crowley’s gaze fall upon him once more. 

“You could, uh. I could take you.” Crowley’s voice was gentle in spite of the roughness of its tone, and Az’s breath caught in his throat. 

“W-would you?” 

“Sure,” Crowley said, nodding his head so vigorously that Az was fleetingly concerned for the state of his neck. “Any time you like.” 

“Wonderful,” said Az, his own voice a ghost of what it normally was. “Perhaps… if you’ve got nothing on for the weekend, I could take a day and–” 

“Saturday,” Crowley interrupted. “Could do Saturday. Leave Ana to run the shop, call in some help from a friend.” 

Four days. Four whole days of seeing Crowley every morning at the bakery and not kissing him and not bringing up the fact that he’d really rather like to kiss him and not making a complete arse of himself. That sounded like a challenge if Az had ever heard one. 

But he said, “Saturday is perfect,” and Crowley’s grin turned supernova-bright. 

*********

When Az walked into Bentley’s on Wednesday morning, Crowley waved at him. 

“Morning.” 

“Good morning, Crowley.” 

“Tea?” 

“Lady Grey, if you have it.” 

“Got it.” Crowley punched something into the register. “And I made something I don’t usually do – they were snapped up by the earliest crowd, but I, uh. Saved you one.” 

Az’s knees went wobbly. “That was… thank you.” 

“Pain au chocolat,” Crowley said, producing a white pastry bag with a flourish. 

_You are the most wonderful man,_ Az thought but didn’t say. Instead he said, “Oh, that sounds marvelous,” and was rewarded with Crowley’s ears turning a delightfully bright shade of red. 

It was, unsurprisingly, the best bloody chocolate croissant Az had ever eaten in his life, and Az left the bakery with Crowley’s cheery “See you tomorrow” setting off fireworks inside his head. 

The feeling spread to his belly when he realized that as long as he was a resident of Alton, Crowley was going to be a part of every one of his tomorrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://tasty.co/recipe/homemade-chocolate-croissants-pain-au-chocolate) is a recipe for pain au chocolat!


	3. Kouign-Amann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Az tries a few new things, and Crowley takes him to the Jane Austen's House Museum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> I initially had a very different plan for this chapter, but... you all know how it goes. Sometimes the characters have minds of their own. So, enjoy some flirting and sweetness and complete silliness, and come back next chapter for a kiss!!
> 
> Quick background on things in this chapter! Jane Austen's _Pride & Prejudice_ is arguably my favorite novel, and so there are a few references to it here. Namely, Mr. Darcy is the man who marries the main character, and most people who read the book or watch an adaptation of it have a massive crush on Darcy by the end. I am no exception, and neither are Aziraphale and Crowley. Also, Pemberley is Darcy's home; the real-life [Chatsworth House](https://www.britannica.com/topic/Chatsworth-estate-England) is often used in adaptations as a stand-in for Pemberley. 
> 
> I chose not to describe the actual interior of the museum for Reasons. Sorry if you were hoping for that!
> 
> Enjoy the ride, friends. I appreciate your readership so very much, and every comment I get here and/or reblog I get on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hope-inthedark) improves my day massively. Thank you. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: language.

It was half past nine in the morning, and Az was pacing. He’d ironed his shirt when he’d gotten up, but it had been tugged and pulled and smoothed and adjusted so many times in the past fifteen minutes that it had become wrinkly again. His bowtie, too, was looking more than a little bit sad. 

This was absurd, and Az knew it. Crowley wasn’t supposed to get here for another half hour, and just because he’d been early last time didn’t necessarily mean he’d be early again. Crowley wouldn’t even be coming inside this time, so there was absolutely no need for Az to be this worried. 

Damn. Az had decided against wearing his favorite velvet waistcoat earlier, but going by the current state of his button-down, he was going to need to rethink that decision. 

With a quick word of prayer that Crowley wouldn’t come knocking for at least another five minutes, Az bustled back up the stairs to his flat. His waistcoat was hanging in his wardrobe, and he could have sworn that it was mocking him. Crowley hadn’t said this was a date. He’d probably only been being friendly, really. Taking the new bookshop owner to see the place where a famous author had lived – it made sense, and so Az was getting himself all worked up for nothing. 

Unless he wasn’t, of course. But that didn’t bear thinking about. 

Az finished buttoning his waistcoat and smoothed it down over the swell of his belly. He’d always been fond of the way it fit. It made him feel very put-together and quite dapper, and some foolish part of his brain wondered if Crowley would see that. 

After a final adjustment of his bowtie (and a quick tug at the lapels of his waistcoat, and a double-check to make sure that his hair looked alright), Az trotted back downstairs and resumed his pacing. This time, he kept his hands away from the collar of his shirt by lacing his fingers together and tucking them around his belly. 

Crowley’s firm knock came at eight minutes to ten, sparing Az from causing any further damage to the carpet in which he had been very busy wearing holes.

“Hi– oh. You’re…” Crowley gestured at Az’s chest. “Dressed up.” 

Damn. Az should’ve left the bloody waistcoat upstairs. 

“Sorry,” Az said on instinct. Crowley was wearing a faded grey band t-shirt tucked into his jeans. An unbuttoned black overshirt was cuffed up to his elbows. “I tend to overdress. Is that alright?” 

“It’s fine. You’re, uh. You’re fine. Ready?” 

“Ready.” Az locked the door behind himself and followed Crowley down to the kerb, where a vehicle was waiting that was definitely _not_ a car. 

“Shit,” Crowley said under his breath. “I’m guessing from the look on your face that I _did_ forget to mention this particular aspect of things. I thought I might’ve.” 

“That’s…” Az started, the rest of the words dying on his lips. 

“A motorcycle, yeah.” 

“Quite,” Az said faintly. 

“You haven’t, mnh. Haven’t ridden one of these before, have you?” Crowley’s hands were shoved so far into his front pockets that Az thought he might have been touching the tops of his knees. 

“No, I can’t say I have.” 

Crowley’s laugh was high and tight. “Right, okay. Sorry. Do you, ah. D’you have a car? I can drive – I promised I’d take you, and I will, it’s just. You know. Don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” 

Az did not, in fact, have a car. He’d never even gotten his driving license. This hadn’t been a problem in London, but he was beginning to suspect that it might become one here. 

“I don’t,” Az said slowly, and Crowley visibly flinched. 

“Shit,” Crowley said again. “Fuck. I’m really– I’m doing a rather impressive job of bollocksing this up, aren’t I?” 

Az thought that he was doing a rather impressive job of looking frighteningly attractive, actually. Flustered was a good look on Crowley, as was whatever he’d done with those shirtsleeves that was leaving so much delightfully freckled skin on display. 

He didn’t say this, of course. What he said was, “No, it’s really all right. The motorcycle will be fine.” 

It took a moment for his own words to sink in, and by the time they did, Crowley was looking at him with wide amber eyes and the widest grin Az had ever seen. 

“Really?” 

Az looked at the motorbike, trying desperately to hide his fear. It wasn’t like the thing was going to eat him, after all. And it wasn’t far to the museum; ten minutes at most, and something told Az that Crowley wouldn’t be the type to obey speed limits. 

“Really,” said Az. 

“Brilliant.” Crowley pulled two helmets off of the handlebars and handed one to Az. “I was thinking you’d sit behind me, ‘s that okay with you?” 

“Fine,” Az said, closing the snap on the helmet’s chin strap and doing his best to tighten it under his jaw. He fussed with it for a few seconds, trying to find where the loose end of the leather strap had gone and failing to find it. 

When Crowley’s warm fingers settled over his, Az froze. 

“What are you–” 

“Let me.” Crowley’s voice was impossibly soft, his beautiful eyes trained on the underside of Az’s chin. “These can be a bit tricky, sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Az squeaked. “Th-thank you.” 

Crowley’s clever hands found and adjusted the strap in record time, but when Crowley took a half-step back, his hands stayed where they were. 

“Sorry if I offended you,” Crowley said, still soft enough to turn Az’s heart into a useless puddle of goo. There was an idle brush of skin on skin, the top of Crowley’s forefinger against the rounded edge of Az’s jaw. Az forgot how to breathe.

“What?” 

“Earlier, with the…” Crowley repeated the gesture he’d made at the door, his hands finally returning to their place in his pockets. “I didn’t mean to suggest that I don’t like what you’re wearing. I do like it. You look– _it_ looks good.” 

“Thank you.” Az’s mind was reeling, all of the words he wanted to say getting jumbled in with the ones that it was appropriate to give voice to. “I like your, ah. What you’re wearing, as well.” 

A red eyebrow vanished underneath Crowley’s helmet. “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Az said with a bit more force than he’d intended. 

“Good.” 

“It is.” 

Crowley stood there for a moment, the late morning sun shining on the rims of his glasses and turning his eyes to pools of liquid gold. Az wanted to reach out and touch him, wanted to brush a hand over that sharp cheekbone and trace the stark lines of that jaw. Wanted to feel those lips under his, wanted to know if Crowley’s face got as hot as it did red when he was blushing. 

It had been a while since Az had liked someone quite this much. When he thought about it, he wasn’t sure that he ever had. Twenty-nine years of life, and Az had never fancied someone like this. 

“We should go,” Crowley said, his rough voice breaking into Az’s thoughts. 

“Yes, we should.” 

Crowley climbed onto the seat of his motorcycle in one easy motion, his body moving like seawater with a strong current. It was beautiful, which meant that it was in direct contrast to the way Az attempted to jump and wriggle his way onto the bike. 

Crowley’s hands appeared again, catching Az by the biceps. Steadying him, helping him settle. Transfusing Az with that easy grace and sending sparks down Az’s spine. 

“Right,” Crowley said once Az was sitting as comfortably as he could be. “Arms around my torso, yeah? Hold on as tight as you like. I can practically guarantee I’ve been squeezed harder.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Az said, his voice shaking nearly as hard as his hands. “I’m stronger than I look.” 

“I think I’ll manage. Long as you don’t break one of my ribs, we’ll be fine.” 

Crowley craned his neck to shoot Az a smile. It was a small thing, but it was comfortable, and Az obligingly wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist. 

Crowley hadn’t even driven to the end of the street when Az realized that he had been (very unfortunately, in his opinion) correct about Crowley’s view on speed limits and traffic laws. He closed his eyes, crushing himself as close to Crowley’s back as he could manage and tucking his helmet-clad head against Crowley’s shoulders. 

The whole ride was so terrifying that Az didn’t even notice that Crowley had a very well-defined chest or that the certain blood-pumping muscle that was resting under his right hand was beating at a rate much higher than it should have been. 

Az didn’t open his eyes until Crowley had slowed to a stop and turned the engine off, and even then, he was tempted to keep them shut. 

“Az?” There was a trace of a laugh in that single syllable. “Y’okay?” 

“Do you remember what I said that you are?” Az mumbled into Crowley’s shirt. 

Crowley’s laugh rang out in full force this time, but he didn’t make any moves to shake Az’s arms off of him. “I believe you called me a demon.” 

“Theory proven,” Az said, and when Crowley laughed again, he could feel the vibrations travel through his own body. “You and this… this _infernal_ machine, honestly.” 

“Didn’t enjoy the ride, then?” 

“I might walk home.” 

“What if I told you that I brought something along for you? Would that be enough to convince you to let me spare your feet the trouble of such a trip?” 

Az lifted his head away and freed Crowley’s chest from the confines of his arms. With a backward glance that might have included a wink, Crowley slipped off of the motorcycle and pulled off his helmet. His curls were tied in a tight bun that sat low on his neck, but the top of his head was staticky and chaotic. Az loved it. 

Finding his voice, Az asked, “You did what?” 

“I’ll show you, but you’ve got to get off first.” The smile on Crowley’s face was a teasing thing, and his eyes were full of a light that didn’t come from the sun. 

“You’re helping me down,” Az demanded. He laughed when Crowley swept into a low bow and extended his arm in a poor imitation of a Victorian gentleman, and Az happily accepted the proffered arm. His own dismount wasn’t a thing of beauty by any stretch, but he’d avoided falling face-first into the gravel of the car park. That, Az thought, was more than enough to be getting on with. 

“Right, well done. Helmet can go on the handlebar for now – I’ve got a place for it, but I have to get something out first.” 

Crowley stepped around to the back of the motorcycle and unlocked a black bag that was fastened to the fuel tank. When Az turned around from hanging up his helmet, Crowley was holding a white pastry bag, his eyes trained on Az’s head. 

“Ghnk,” said Crowley. “Er. Helmet hair.” 

Az flushed red from his hairline to the middle of his chest, immediately burying his hands in his curls and trying to use the small rearview mirror to see the state of things. He looked a mess, and after a few long moments of wrestling with his hair, he gave up. 

“This is your fault,” Az said waspishly. 

“Okay.” 

“I look ridiculous, and it’s your fault.” _I look ridiculous in front of_ **_you_ ** _, no less._

Crowley’s cheeks were turning pink. “Okay.” 

Az snatched the pastry bag out of Crowley’s outstretched hand and fixed Crowley with a narrow-eyed glare. “There had better be a first edition Austen in here, Crowley.” 

“I– there’s not, sorry.” 

“We’ll have to see about that ride home, then, won’t we,” Az said under his breath as he folded back the white paper of the bag and reached inside. 

“It’s called a kouign-amann,” Crowley said quickly, pointing to the muffin-shaped pastry in Az’s hand. “They’re arguably my favorite things to eat.” 

Az’s irritation was fading, which was irritating in and of itself. Bloody beautiful baker and his bloody beautiful pastries, making Az forget that he was trying to be angry. 

“There are two,” Az sniffed. Crowley’s face was fully red now, and this gave Az enough satisfaction that he caved and handed over the half-empty pastry bag. 

“It’s basically a sugared croissant,” Crowley said, revealing his own pastry. “Go on, try it.” 

Az took a careful bite. The outside was crisp, a crystalline crust formed by sugar that had been melted and cooled off again. Inside, it was buttery and flaky and just a little bit sweet.

It was the type of thing that made Az want to push Crowley up against the nearest wall and kiss him breathless. 

Az made an involuntary pleased-sounding noise, and even he wasn’t certain whether the cause of it was the kouign-amann or the thought of kissing Crowley. When he opened his eyes again (when had he shut them?), Crowley was fully staring at him, pastry halfway to his pretty lips. 

“That’s _delicious,_ ” Az said, and Crowley jolted so sharply that he nearly dropped his breakfast into the dirt. 

“Good,” said Crowley, his face several shades redder than it had been moments before. He coughed, dropped his gaze to the ground, and shoved half of his kouign-amann into his mouth. 

Az raised an eyebrow and took another bite, chewing slowly. “Do be careful, Crowley. You’ll choke.” 

Crowley swallowed hard, the second half of his pastry vanishing as the first had done. With a cheeky wink, Crowley snatched Az’s helmet off of the handlebar and tucked it into the black bag where the pastries had been hidden, locking it when he was done.

“Right,” Crowley said, flapping a hand toward the museum. “Ready to go?” 

“Very, thank you.”

Az finished his kouign-amann in a series of nibbles and small bites as they walked, savoring the crunch and flake of it. He thought he saw Crowley’s eyes come to rest on his mouth at one point, but he wasn’t certain. 

“Wait,” Crowley said when they got to the stone wall outside of Chawton house. He grabbed Az by the elbow, pulling him off the path and turning him to face the red building. He leaned down to be eye level with Az, stepping behind him. “Az Fell, prepare yourself.” 

Az’s heart was threatening to break through his ribs. Crowley’s breath was tickling the skin of his ear, warm and gentle. If Az turned his head, he could probably plant a kiss on Crowley’s lips. 

“I’m prepared.” 

“Are you?” Crowley’s voice was full of laughter. 

“What _are_ you doing?” 

“You’re a literature bloke, Az. This is _Jane Austen’s_ house. She wrote books here, you know. Books you’ve read.” 

“I know,” Az said, giving Crowley a small smile. It didn’t really feel like the time to mention that he’d been to Charles Dickens’ home in London and C.S. Lewis’s home in Oxford. Crowley was excited, and Az was perfectly willing to let himself be guided through this house if it meant getting to see Crowley act like this. 

“You’ve got to picture it when you go through.” Crowley straightened up and took Az by the elbow again, pulling him through the open gate. “Y’know, imagine Austen having tea in the dining room and writing at her writing table – which is smaller than you’re probably thinking, by the way – and sitting in the back garden.” 

“If you say so,” said Az. “I must admit, Crowley, you don’t strike me as an Austen fan.” 

Crowley had the decency to look offended. “Look, I don’t read as much as you do, but I’ve read bloody Jane Austen.” 

“Yes, but her stories are…” Az trailed off, suddenly becoming very interested in the flowers by the front door. 

“Are what?” 

“Romances,” Az finished lamely. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and Az could feel heat rising in his cheeks when Crowley’s eyes came to rest on his face. “They are.” 

There were a few beats of silence. Crowley’s grip in Az’s elbow tightened, just for the tiniest sliver of a second, and then his hand fell away. 

Crowley’s face split into an easy grin again, and when he said, “Follow me,” Az did. 

*********

“It’s smaller than I thought it would be.” 

They were sitting on a bench outside of the museum, holding packets of fish and chips that Crowley had gotten from a pub up the road while Az found something from the gift shop to send to his mum. 

Crowley grunted around a chip. “Expecting Pemberley, were you?” 

“No,” Az said. “Not exactly. I just… I don’t know, it just feels strange. She was – she _is_ – this great literary giant, but she was also very ordinary.” 

“Nah,” said Crowley, stuffing his mouth with a large bite of fish. “Nothing ordinary about her, I don’t think.”

“Oh?” 

Crowley shrugged. “She was brilliant, y’know? It wasn’t like she made scads of money or anything, but. She was critical of the world she lived in, and she wrote stories about women finding love in marriages and staying out of ones that didn’t have it. People didn’t do that, yeah? Women didn’t have voices, and she… she gave herself one.” 

“Of course,” Az said, resisting the urge to reach out and pat Crowley on his denim-clad knee. “I only meant that she wasn’t wealthy. Her family wasn’t high-class or special. She never married. She was just like us, in a lot of ways.” 

“Yeah.” 

“We’re a baker and a bookseller. By societal standards, those aren’t the most glamorous of professions. There are no giant homes or great balls or grand gestures for us, either, are there?” 

Crowley’s lips quirked upward. “You’re living in the wrong century for those things, Az.” 

“I wouldn’t have gotten an Austenian romance anyway,” Az said. “No great loss, I suppose.” 

“Why?” 

Az bit off the end of a chip. “Why what?” 

“Why wouldn’t you have gotten an Austenian romance?” 

Az laughed. “Oh, merely a minor glitch in circumstance, I suppose. It wouldn’t have been an ideal time to be gay.” 

Crowley choked on his fish. “Ghn.” 

“There aren’t many stories of happy gay weddings from Austen’s era,” Az continued, popping the rest of his chip into his mouth. “No Darcys or Knightleys for men like me.”

“Not for men like us, no,” Crowley said with false nonchalance, and it was Az’s turn to choke. “Well, I mean. I dunno. I like women, too, but. It’s usually blokes.” 

“So you could have _been_ a Darcy, then,” Az teased. “You’ve certainly got the dark-colored wardrobe down.” 

“I wouldn’t– look, I wouldn’t have been bloody _Darcy._ ” 

“No?” 

“No,” Crowley said with a firm shake of his head. “Definitely not Darcy. But honestly, I wouldn’t have survived very long back then anyway. Breeches and cravats and ‘Good morrow, sir, good morning, lady.’ Would’ve killed me, all that formality.” 

The idea of Crowley in breeches and a cravat was poking holes in Az’s sanity, but he managed to choke out, “What do you have against Darcy?” 

“Nothing much.” Crowley winked at Az, which was evidently all that was needed for Az’s rational thought to decide to take an extended vacation. “I just have a crush on him, ‘s all.” 

“Oh,” Az said, feeling very light-headed and dizzy. “So do I.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, and a silly-looking grin crawled over his face. “You think I’d have made a good Darcy then, do you?” 

The mystery of whether or not Az’s foot could fit in his own mouth had been solved, apparently. Az felt like his face was on fire. 

“I didn’t– _look,_ I wasn’t trying to impl– not that you’re not, you know, but. That wasn’t what I was, ah.” Crowley was laughing now, his strong shoulders shaking with it. “ _Pants._ ” 

Crowley’s laugh turned to a spluttering cough. “Did you really just say–” 

“Shut up,” Az said primly, wishing very much that he had a bucket of ice water to stick his head into. Maybe that would put out the flames in his cheeks. 

“You’re bloody wonderful,” laughed Crowley. “You’re– fuck. Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

Crowley’s laugh rumbled to a stop, but he kept smiling. “For being you.”

On the ride back to the bookshop, Az managed to lift his head and open his eyes, and he found that it was beautiful. And this time when he slid his hand over Crowley’s heart, he noticed that it was beating too fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://frenchly.us/dominique-ansel-reveals-recipe-kouign-amann-dka/) is the recipe for the best kouign-amann I’ve ever eaten in my life. Dominique Ansel has bakeries around the world, and they’re genuinely worth visiting for the DKA alone. Believe me when I say that if this pastry were a person, I’d marry it.


	4. Brioche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Az opens his bookshop, and Crowley shows up just before closing with a celebratory gift.
> 
> PS. The alternate title for this fic is _Az Is Ace-Thirsty For Freckly Crowley_. It's been established.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Just a quick note tonight because there are some major Work Things that I need to address this evening. 
> 
> Firstly: I'm so sorry that I'm so behind on comments! My every spare moment right now - of which there aren't many - is being spent writing, so I apologize for not replying more quickly. I am reading every single one of your kind words, though, and I can't tell you how grateful I am for them. Seeing comments on this story (or any other) brightens my days significantly and encourages me to keep writing. 
> 
> Secondly: this chapter has a kiss, as promised. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Chapter warnings: language. (I think that's it - let me know if I missed anything!)

Az was making a final lap around the bookshop, running his hands over the spines of the books. They sat in perfect rows, a silent army of dreams, and dust didn’t dare settle on them tonight. 

The bookshop was everything Az had dreamed of. Softly-lit lamps were mounted to the walls and set on small tables at the ends of dark wood shelves. The golden light bounced off of grey-blue walls and filled the entire room with a warm glow and gentle shadows. The air smelled of paper and ink and glue (and still faintly of fresh paint, if the draughts blew from certain directions), the scent stronger and mixed with the ghosts of coffee and cigarette smoke around the shelves that held used books. 

Az loved all of it. It was perfect, and for a few more hours, it would stay that way.

Tomorrow, Az would open up the shop at midday and let the first customers in. They would move the books around and leave their fingerprints on the perfectly-shined polish of the register. They’d break the silence with voices and footsteps and laughter. They might spill tea or coffee on the floorboards. They would ruin the perfect sanctuary that Az had built, but they’d bring something else to it, too: life, with all of its imperfections and mistakes. 

In spite of himself, Az was nervous. It was nearing four in the morning, and he hadn’t yet gone to sleep. He’d gone upstairs to his flat at a quarter to eleven. He’d taken a shower and changed into his favorite pyjamas, made himself a cup of tea and settled into bed with his father’s well-worn copy of _Grimm’s Fairytales._ And then he’d read and read and read for hours, never once getting the slightest bit sleepy. 

This had gotten frustrating after three or so hours. Az had hauled himself out of bed and thrown on a dressing gown as he made his way downstairs. He’d busied himself with adjusting the angle of a few tables – the nice young men he’d hired to help him finalize the shop over the past few weeks had been strong and helpful, but they hadn’t really had an eye for proper placement and position – and had run a polishing cloth over the wood of the register one final time. Then he’d begun walking through the shelves, checking for things that needed fixing. 

There were, at this point, no more things in need of such a thing, and Az was at a loss for what to do with himself. With a sigh, he turned off all of the lamps and trudged toward the stairs once more, all but resigning himself to a night of staring at his ceiling fan. 

It was a good thing, really, that he nearly tripped over his Oxfords when he got upstairs, because it reminded him that he could go for a walk. Some night air and a bit of quiet seemed to be quite far from the worst idea. 

Az changed into a pair of proper trousers (and winced slightly when he realized that this meant he’d ruined the crease in them and would have to press them again should he want to wear them in the morning) and threw on a jumper. It was an outfit composed of two noticeably different shades of beige. There was a brief internal debate about choosing a different colored jumper, but Az figured that he wouldn’t be seeing anyone who would give half a damn about his clothes and decided to leave things as they were.

Four minutes later, Az stepped out of the bookshop. Five minutes after that, he walked past Bentley’s. Thirty seconds after _that,_ he saw something in the alley behind the bakery that made his heart skip rather too many beats. 

It was Crowley. He was only visible because of the angle of the moon and the light flowing out of the open back door of the bakery, and he looked beautiful. His hair was tied in a messy knot on the top of his head, and he was wearing a vest top again. Az thought that this latter detail should be made illegal. There ought to have been sanctions against this type of thing. To make matters worse, Crowley had a large bag of flour propped against his chest and shoulder, and the slant of the light from the backdoor was hitting him in such a way that Az had an exemplary view of his biceps. 

It was no wonder that the man had back muscles like a bloody marble statue, really. The bag he was carrying couldn’t have weighed less than twenty kilos, and Crowley was handing it off to someone in the doorway like it was full of nothing but air. 

Az stifled an involuntary whimper that had risen in his throat and hurried past the alley, not wanting Crowley to catch him watching. There was nothing to be done about the fact that Az was completely gone on Crowley, but he didn’t need Crowley to know about it.

Crowley was attracted to men, sure, but that didn’t mean that he was attracted to Az. Az had been a daily patron of Bentley’s since the morning after Crowley and Anathema had handed him a basket of scones, and Crowley had never so much as asked him to dinner. They’d gone to the museum, of course, but Crowley had given him no indication that the outing was intended to be a date. The day after their trip to Chawton, Az had walked into Bentley’s, and things had gone as they normally did. He ordered a tea, Crowley chose a pastry for him. He ate the pastry and drank the tea, said hello to Anathema (and Newt, if he was there), and left. Crowley said “See you tomorrow,” and Az said it back. It was routine and business-as-usual, and Az had tried very hard to take the hint. 

It hadn’t gone well. He still fancied Crowley more than he’d ever fancied anyone in his life, but at least the effort had been made. 

When Az walked past the alley again on his way home, it was empty and dark save for a faint light from a small window above the bakery door. 

*********

Az trotted into Bentley’s half an hour after it opened, a thin stack of printed flyers clutched in his hand. Anathema looked up from scribbling something on a notepad, and her look of mild boredom became one of surprise. 

“You’re early,” she said in lieu of a greeting. 

“Hello to you, too, my dear.” Az walked up to the counter and set a flyer in front of Anathema. “I need a favor.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Can I put one of these up on your message board? The bookshop opens today, and I’m trying to get the word out. I would have given this to you earlier, but the print shop butchered my first order rather badly and the new batch wasn’t ready until yesterday afternoon.” 

“Dunno,” Anathema said with a smirk. “If your shop’s rubbish, we don’t want to be advertising for it, do we?” 

Az huffed. “It’s not rubbish, it’s _perfect._ Please, Anathema.” 

“Hmm.” 

“ _Please._ ” Az knew that Anathema was teasing him, but he wasn’t certain that he had the patience to deal with it right at the moment. He was sleep-deprived and jittery, and he wanted to get this interaction out of the way so that he could order a cup of tea and a pastry to calm his nerves. 

There was a crashing sound from the kitchen, and the door swung open to reveal a grinning and very flour-dusted Crowley. 

“Ana, you are literally in no position to be tormenting Az over this. You let Newt hang up a flyer for his uncle’s coffee shop approximately two seconds after meeting him, and we bloody sell coffee ourselves.” Crowley’s gaze shifted to Az, and his smile widened. “Hi, Az.” 

“Good morning,” Az said. 

“That’s true,” said Anathema, twisting her upper body around to face Crowley, “but I only did that because I thought he was hot. So no offense, Az, but seeing as you’re gay and I’m dating Newt, I’m not sure that there’s much of an incentive for me here.” 

“You’re pathetic,” Crowley said to Anathema. He fished a pushpin out of a little bin under the counter and handed it to Az with a wink. “Board’s near the cream and sugar. Go hang your thing, and please ignore my idiot best friend while you’re at it.” 

Az muttered a thank you and rolled his eyes in Anathema’s direction, turning his back to her as he went to tack the flyer advertising the opening of the bookshop to the cluttered bulletin board on the wall near the door. 

“Right then,” he said after he’d made his way back up to the register. “I think I’d like a nice cup of chamomile today.” 

Crowley smiled at him, the movement of his lips shaking a small amount of flour loose from where it had collected on the side of his nose. Az watched it fall and settle on Crowley’s shirt, and he had an involuntary flashback to the sight of Crowley carrying a giant bag of the stuff a few hours before. 

“Gh,” Az said without meaning to. “And, uh. Do you have anything edible that might go well with it?” 

Crowley tapped his finger on the display case on Az’s right, pointing to the long row of gigantic croissants. “One of those. Bit of butter and honey on it, if you like.” 

“Wonderful,” said Az, and he reached for his wallet.

“Don’t.” 

Az stopped, his hand still in his pocket. “I beg your pardon?” 

“On the house today,” Crowley said with a half-smile. “It’s the grand opening of your shop. ‘S the least we can do.” 

Az fished his wallet out of his pocket anyway, shaking his head and trying to hide his smile. “Absolutely not. I simply insist on paying.” 

“And I simply insist that you put your blasted money away and go sit by the window,” Crowley said, leaning over to push Az’s coins (and the remaining flyers, which Az had all but forgotten about) across the counter. “If you try to pay me or even leave a tip, I’m not bringing you your breakfast.” 

“I’ll go somewhere else,” Az protested. 

Crowley laughed, a small light thing. “And pay for your food? That’s absurd. Besides, you won’t find a better croissant on this entire blessed island, Az.” 

“I– well.” Az felt his cheeks warming with a flush. “Thank you, Crowley.” 

“Go sit down,” Crowley said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the tables. He was trying to be stern, but Az saw the upward curve of his mouth anyway. 

Today, Crowley’s usual “See you tomorrow!” was accompanied by a smile-bound “Good luck,” so Az left the bakery with the taste of butter and the shape of thankful words on his lips. 

*********

It was five minutes until six, which meant that there were five minutes until Az could slap the “Closed” sign on the bookshop’s front door and finally get a moment’s peace. His first day of business had been successful but massively chaotic, and Az had figured out within the first two hours that he would _definitely_ be needing to hire at least one extra set of hands. Someone to work the till while he gave customers recommendations or put books back in their proper places. 

He resolved to ask Crowley and Anathema tomorrow if they knew of anyone who might be in need of a job. The sooner he could fill this position and train someone to be of help, the better. 

Az was on his way to close the shop and lock the front door when the bell above it rang out, announcing the arrival of a final customer. They would, Az decided, just have to come back tomorrow to browse.

“We’re closed,” Az called, weaving through the bookshelves. “I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid this will have to wait until tomorr– oh.” 

It was Crowley,and he was holding a wicker basket much like the one that Az had received on the day they’d first met. A devastatingly handsome smirk was stuck on his face, and when he caught sight of Az, he beamed. 

“Happy end-of-the-first-day,” he said, his voice sending jolts of static through Az’s brain. “Brought something to celebrate.” 

“Hello,” Az said dumbly. 

“Hi.” Crowley held the basket out. “Here. I thought you might like some company – someone to regale with your first-day stories.” 

“I–” Az shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that had appeared there. “Yes. Yes, thank you. Let me just, ah. Lock up.” 

“Course,” Crowley said, stepping aside to let Az get to the door. 

Az fumbled with the lock and deadbolt. What was Crowley thinking, showing up like this? It was bad enough when Az knew that he’d see Crowley. He had time to prepare, to calm himself down, to remind himself to keep his cool. But Crowley had waltzed into the bookshop like he belonged there (and Az quickly shut down the thought that he rather _did_ ), so Az’s cool was very quickly becoming quite warm indeed. 

“I have a backroom,” Az said in a rush, snatching the basket from Crowley’s hand as he walked by. He didn’t dare look up. Crowley’s eyes were entirely too much to even think about dealing with under the circumstances. “Follow me?” 

“Right behind you.”

Az unlocked the door to the backroom on his first try, which was proof positive that someone in the Great Upstairs was looking out for him. He took a steadying breath and pushed it open, holding it to allow Crowley to follow him inside. 

Crowley’s hips stopped their mesmerizing sway as soon as he entered the room, and fragments of polished silver shone from his eyes. He laughed softly, turning in a tight circle. 

“What?” Az asked. 

Crowley laughed again. “Books. You have an entire bookshop out there full of the things, and yet your office has even more.” 

“These are _mine,_ ” Az said defensively, closing the door with a click. “I wouldn’t sell them if someone paid me.” 

“Isn’t that exactly what selling them would entail? Someone paying you?” 

Az plunked the basket down on his desk and narrowed his eyes teasingly at Crowley. “Yes, quite. Very clever.” 

“You’re trying not to laugh,” Crowley accused, maneuvering his liquid body into the confines of a chair. “I can see it.” 

“I am not. It wasn’t funny.” It was. 

Crowley’s laugh stayed inside of his mouth this time, so Az only heard the muffled rumble of it. “Sure, fine. So, this is your whole personal collection, then?” 

“Of course not.” Az removed the cloth from the top of the basket and found a bottle of cheap champagne, two plastic cups, and a small pile of brioche buns. “Plastic cups, Crowley. Really?” 

“Oi, I didn’t have to come here,” Crowley said, throwing his hands up near his reddening ears in a gesture of surrender. “I just thought it’d be nice, that’s all.” 

With a dramatic sigh, Az peeled the foil off of the top of the bottle and popped the cork. He poured it into the cups in silence, listening to the fizz of the bubbles and the soft scratching of fingernails on fabric. Crowley was fidgeting again. He nearly always was; Az couldn’t think of a time that he’d seen the man’s hands stay still. The inner seams of his pockets were probably worn through from the way Crowley played with them. 

Az gathered a few buns into the cloth and carried them with the champagne over to the coffee table. Crowley took a glass, waiting until Az got settled in the seat opposite himself to raise it. 

“To your first day, and to good fortune in the many more to come,” Crowley said, stretching forward to tap the rim of his cup against Az’s. 

“Hear, hear,” Az said, and they drank.

“So,” Crowley said after a moment. He twisted his wrist, spinning his champagne. “This isn’t your whole collection of books, then?” 

“No.” 

“Where’s the rest of it?” 

Az shrugged. “Some are at my mum’s in London, but most are in my flat upstairs.” 

Crowley snorted into his drink. “There isn’t a bloody room in this entire building that isn’t full of books, is there?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Az said. “I don’t have any books in the kitch– wait.” 

Crowley made another laugh-like sound. When Az looked up to tell him off, Crowley’s eyes landed on his. They caught him, froze time, and Az became a fly caught in their amber. 

“You impossible thing,” Crowley said softly, and it didn’t sound like an insult. 

Az didn’t move or breathe or even think for as long as Crowley looked at him. He sat there, champagne warming in his hand, and let Crowley hold him without touching him. 

This couldn’t be all in his head, could it? There was… well, there was nothing precise about the way Crowley acted toward him, but there was certainly _something._ Crowley’s gaze was zeroed in on Az’s lips now, and Az could almost feel them tingling under the force of it. 

“Crowley,” Az said in a near-whisper. 

Crowley collapsed backward like he’d been pressed into his chair by some invisible weight. He dropped his eyes to the floorboards, a blush rising red-hot and furious in his cheeks. 

“Sorry,” Crowley said too quickly. “Have some bread, will you? ‘S got orange in it.” 

“I don’t want any.” 

Crowley’s head snapped up again, but he was staring with wide eyes at Az’s hairline instead of his face. “You what?” 

“I don’t want it,” Az said again. His stomach was turning somersaults, and for the first time in his life, the thought of eating anything was nauseating. 

“Shit.” Crowley slammed his empty cup down onto the table, his long fingers scrambling for the edges of the cloth. Gathering it up, folding it in on itself. Closing it off, like he was doing to himself. “Sorry, Az. I thought you might– fuck, I don’t know. I just figured… gnh. Never mind.” 

This was not good. Crowley was getting ready to bolt, and Az knew it. There had to be something he could do, some sort of apology he could make. Something to get Crowley to stay. 

Az was a clever man. He’d always been clever. He had the vocabulary of a large pocket dictionary and had committed many grand soliloquies and lengthy poems to memory. By all rights, he should have been able to say the perfect thing. If the world had been fair, he would have. 

But because Az was extremely flustered, the entirety of his expansive verbal knowledge went out the window, and a series of words he never imagined that he’d say slid off his tongue. 

“Why won’t you kiss me?” 

The bundle of rolls that Crowley had been holding with a white-knuckled fist fell to the floor. Five perfectly round, perfectly golden buns hit the floor with soft thumps, rolling away to hidden places under the various pieces of furniture in Az’s backroom. 

Crowley didn’t appear to notice this. He was frozen mid-stride, staring at Az and taking shallow, gasping breaths. 

A few long seconds passed before Crowley managed to croak out, “What?” 

Ah, bollocks. Az was going to have to say it again, wasn’t he? 

“I asked you why you won’t kiss me,” Az said, forcing his voice to be more level than it wanted to be. He placed his cup of champagne on the floor. “I think that you want to – you look at me sometimes like you do, and so I want to know why you haven’t.” 

Crowley audibly gulped. “I didn’t know that you, er. That you wanted me to.”

“Of course I bloody well want you to,” Az snapped. “I’ve only been half in love with you since the moment I set eyes on you, you numpty.” 

There was a strangled noise before Crowley’s high-pitched “You’ve been _what?_ ” 

Az momentarily considered the benefits of slamming his forehead into the coffee table.

“Half,” Az said weakly, gesturing at nothing. “I said I’ve been half–” 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Crowley said feelingly, cutting Az off before he could repeat himself. 

He was standing in front of Az before Az was even aware that he’d moved, folding his long body in half. His beautiful hands flew to the sides of Az’s face like they’d been magnetized there.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” Good lord, that voice. 

“You had bloody better,” Az murmured peevishly. 

With a tiny laugh, Crowley did. 

Nerves that Az hadn’t been previously aware that he possessed lit up like fairy lights on a Christmas tree. Crowley’s mouth was just as warm as the rest of him, and Az was certain that there must have been a fire somewhere inside of that skinny body. 

Az had expected this kiss to be strong and barely controlled, a small fraction of the way that Crowley was, but it wasn’t. Crowley’s lips were solid but gentle, sliding against Az’s with slow, careful movements. 

Crowley pulled away after a period of time that Az thought was a few hours too short. His eyes were shut behind his glasses, and his lips were redder than they had been before. Az nearly fainted when Crowley licked them. 

“Again,” Az said before he could stop himself. “Kiss me– kiss me again.” 

Crowley’s hands landed on Az’s biceps and hauled him to his feet (which was no small amount of effort – Crowley really _was_ quite impressively strong, Az remembered belatedly). His fingers didn’t stop moving. They skittered downward, finally snaking beneath Az’s wrists to come to rest on the curves of Az’s hips. 

_That_ was new. None of Az’s previous boyfriends – _Christ,_ they’d had one kiss, and Az was already thinking of Crowley as his boyfriend – had moved to that particular part of Az’s body so quickly and with so much confidence. 

Az didn’t have much time to ruminate over this fact, however, because Crowley gave a happy-sounding grunt and bent down to kiss Az again. 

In his nearly thirty years of life, Az had kissed six men. Five of them he’d been dating or had wound up dating, and one of them had been a drunken aborted hookup in a pub toilet that had clarified Az’s suspicions that he was a relationships-only bloke who had no interest in sexual activity of any kind. Six men had kissed Az. There had been a few hundred individual kisses spread between the six. 

And yet when Crowley kissed him, Az forgot about all of them. 

“Hi,” Crowley said against Az’s lips when he pulled away again. 

“Guh,” said Az. His brain was making a dial-up noise. 

Crowley tugged Az into his chest and set his chin on top of Az’s curls. His laugh moved through his chest like thunder, enveloping Az in its warm vibrations. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Crowley said. 

“I’ve wanted you to do it for a while.” 

A squeaking sound. “Yes. So, uh. So you said.” 

“Ah. Yes.” Az squirmed a little bit, shifting his head to the side of Crowley’s chest instead of the center so that he could look up into those golden eyes. “Sorry if that was… you know. Sorry. I didn’t mean that I actually _am,_ you know – not that I won’t ever be, just that I’m…” 

“I like you,” Crowley said firmly, saving Az from having to muddle through the end of that sentence. “I fancy you. A lot.” 

Relief washed over Az, and some of the heat receded from his cheeks. “That’s what I was trying to say, yes. I would rather like to go about this mutual fancying in a manner more similar to this one, if you’re open to it.” 

Crowley’s eyes shone. “I very much am.” 

“Excellent.” Az took Crowley by the hand, shivering at the sensation of their fingers weaving together. “Now. Where has your wonderful brioche gone to?” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Ah. The floor, I think.” 

“Not all of it,” Az said, motioning to the basket on his desk with their joined hands. 

“So you _do_ want it,” said Crowley. He tugged on Az’s hand and pulled him over to the desk, grabbing a few buns with his large hands. “I thought so.” 

“Of course I want it. I just didn’t at that precise moment.” 

“Right.” Crowley handed Az a bun and hopped up onto the desk next to the basket, patting the empty space next to him. It was an invitation, one which Az was only too happy to accept.

“I had more pressing matters to deal with,” Az said, pressing a kiss to the bottom of Crowley’s jaw. 

“Oh yeah?” Crowley wiggled his eyebrows. “Like what?” 

“Getting you to stop being a coward and _kiss me_ ,” Az said with false irritation. 

“Shuddup,” Crowley growled, biting off a hunk of his bun. 

Az took a bite of his own bread, humming happily at the delicate orange flavor and soft crumb. “Oooh, alright. I forgive you for your cowardice.” 

“Because of the fucking brioche?” 

“Yes,” Az said. “There are very few things I wouldn’t do for a good brioche.” 

Crowley grinned and shoved the rest of his roll into his mouth, which meant that Az got momentarily sidetracked by his lips. 

“Noted,” said Crowley. “I’ll put that on a Post-It. ‘Bribe Az with brioche.’” 

“You’re horrid.” 

Crowley poked Az in the shoulder. “You _like_ it.” 

“Demon.” 

Snickering, Crowley buried his nose in Az’s curls and said, “I’ve been thinking about that, you know.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. If I’m a demon, I figure you’re an angel.” 

Az forgot about the rest of his roll. “Come again?” 

“You’ve even got the halo,” Crowley said, kissing Az’s curls. “And you wear all these light-colored things. Plus, erm. You’re quite pretty.” 

“I thought angels were supposed to be scary.” Az was having a hard time breathing. 

“Not this one,” Crowley said gently. He slid one of his hands around Az’s back, spreading his fingers wide over the swell of Az’s love handles. “You’re the best kind of angel. Soft, not scary.” 

“You’re daft,” Az said, but he turned his head and kissed Crowley anyway. 

Az walked Crowley to the door at half-past ten, dizzy with the feeling of having Crowley so close to him. There were invisible handprints all over his body; fingers stretched across his hips and over his knee, lines that Crowley had traced down his nose and along the high curves of his cheeks. He even smelled like Crowley, now, like freshly-baked bread and orange peel and Crowley’s woody-floral cologne. The knowledge that he was in some way Crowley’s, even temporarily, was enough to drive Az’s heartbeat wild. 

On the doorstep, they shared a final kiss. Az stood up on his toes, reaching up as Crowley leaned down. When Crowley had gone, Az wandered through the bookshop in a daze. He climbed the stairs, changed his clothes, made tea, and climbed into bed without being conscious of any of it. It was only when he opened his book that he realized where he was, because the page in front of him wasn’t a fairytale. 

It was a book of love poetry. He had apparently snatched it from the shelf in his mindless, Crowley-drunk state, but he found that he didn’t mind at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/brioche-au-sucre) is a recipe for _brioche au sucre,_ which is essentially what Crowley gives Az in this chapter!


	5. Macarons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of conversations regarding a great many important things. We learn (as if we didn't already know) that Crowley is, at heart, a very good person, and that Az is more than enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. The boys also get their official membership cards to the Mutual Admiration Society.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Sorry for the twenty-day unannounced hiatus, friends. I had surgery and wasn't able to write for the first little while afterward. But I'm back now, and I'm hoping to finish out this story in the next couple weeks. And if you watched Good Omens Lockdown, I wrote a short little oneshot about that as well, which you can find [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995792)
> 
> My initial plan for this chapter didn't work out, so y'all will have to wait for the next one for some absolutely ridiculously sugary (and incredibly cheesy) fluffy stuff. I've been planning that scene from the beginning, so I'm excited to write it! This chapter as it stands is also very soft and sweet, I promise. There are literature and poetry references courtesy of our favorite bookseller, and there are some things that are quite literally sweet as well (see the title). 
> 
> That being said: anyone who's read anything of mine before knows by now that I always give the fellas something not-good in their past, and those things for this version of reality are discussed in this chapter. They're in the past, and the boys have both done some healing to get past them, but they are mentioned (because honesty is important in healthy relationships!). 
> 
> In light of that, warnings for this chapter are as follows: mentions of acephobia, mentions of unhealthy relationships (nothing abusive, just not good for the parties involved), strong language. 
> 
> Also, just as a note - one of the things quoted in this chapter is _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ by Stephen Chbosky, and the other is "Always" by Lang Leav, neither of which I own or have any claim to other than being a consumer of their brilliance.

It had been a week since Crowley had kissed Az in the backroom of Az’s bookshop, tasting of butter and sugar and oranges. In the time between then and now, there had been many more kisses. Crowley’s lips tasted like coffee more often than not, and Az was finding that he didn’t hate the stuff quite so much as he used to. The kisses had stopped being hesitant, stopped being delicate and a little unsure, stopped being quite so new. But in spite of that, they’d stayed gentle. Crowley never pushed too far, and even on the one occasion when he’d crowded Az up against a closed door and kissed him with his hands like brackets on either side of Az’s hips, it hadn’t been anything close to rough. Crowley’s lips were always soft even when the kiss was firm, and he made little happy-sounding humming noises that Az could feel as well as hear. His fingers trailed the lines and curves of Az’s face, tangled in his curls without pulling, brushed over his sides and came to rest on the roundness of his waist. 

Crowley, Az was starting to realize, kissed Az like he was something precious. Something good. Something beautiful. 

They were sitting on the sofa in Crowley and Anathema’s flat. Crowley was pressing loops and vague patterns into the fabric over Az’s lower thigh with a fingertip, the kind of idle touch that made Az’s nerves come alight. The telly was on, but neither of them were watching it. 

“You haven’t told me what your favorite baked thing is,” Crowley said thoughtfully, tilting his head to look Az in the eye. 

“I don’t have one.” 

One of Crowley’s eyebrows slid upward. “Really?” 

“Really,” Az said. “There are a great many things that I enjoy, and I couldn’t possibly choose between them. And besides, I haven’t tried everything. Kouign-amman, for example – I hadn’t had that before the day you took me to Chawton, and it’s delightful.” 

Crowley’s lips were still in the process of curving into one of his devastatingly beautiful smirks when he said, “Top five, then.” 

“Why on earth do you want to know? You’re well aware that I’ll happily eat anything you give me.” 

“I’m a bloody baker,” Crowley said. “Figured that I should know what kinds of things my boyfriend likes best.” 

_ Boyfriend.  _ The word sent a shock down Az’s spine, and he jolted away from where he’d been leaning against Crowley’s shoulder, eyes growing wider by the moment. 

“Ah, fuck.” Crowley scrubbed a hand over his chin before burying it in his hair. His eyes were locked on Az’s face, warm and beautiful and full of fear. 

“Boyfriend?” Az made himself ask, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. If Crowley hadn’t really meant it, or if he wanted to take it back… 

“Only if you want,” Crowley said quickly. His entire body was moving slightly, jostling and shaking and tapping. A bundle of frenetic energy shoved into a human form. “We don’t have to– we don’t need to put a label on it yet, y’know? Sorry. I didn’t mean to, ah. Been thinking it, didn’t mean to say it yet. Planned a whole fuckin’ proper conversation about it. Was gonna make you dinner. Fuck.” 

“I would very much like to call you my boyfriend, Crowley,” said Az. Crowley was going to talk himself in circles – or worse, talk himself out of this whole thing entirely – and Az thought it best to avoid that. 

Crowley went from a blur of motion to a statue in an instant. “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Az said, packing as much confidence into that monosyllable as he could. 

“Because if you’d rather I call you something else, that’s fine. That’s good.” 

Az smiled at him. “I think ‘boyfriend’ will be lovely.” 

“Could do ‘partner’ if you want. Or, or ‘my person.’ More casual, that.” Crowley was scrambling to open as many metaphorical doors as he could. He hadn’t blinked yet. He was staring at Az in a way that looked like crossed fingers and superstitions and making frantic gestures to give Az any number of ways out of this. 

Az spared a vengeful thought in the direction of whoever had made Crowley think he wasn’t worth committing to before saying, “You know, darling, I’d be happy to call you whatever you’d like so long as it’s clear to anyone who hears that you are in a relationship with me.” 

Crowley made a noise that could only be called a giggle. He sounded like a little boy, and that coupled with the look of unchecked happiness that was spreading like sunbeams across his freckled features was altogether too much for Az. 

Az put a wide hand across the back of Crowley’s neck, catching the last breathy remnants of Crowley’s laugh between his lips. 

When the kiss ended, Crowley kept his face close. His eyes were shut, and the gold wire frame of his glasses was pressed against Az’s cheek. He was still smiling, but he didn’t speak. 

Az didn’t move. He let Crowley take long moment after long moment, sitting still in the quiet. Crowley’s breath was warm on Az’s lips, just as gentle as Crowley himself. The times when Crowley sat still were few and far between, so Az was perfectly willing to let the world and time disappear for as long as Crowley liked. 

Eventually, Crowley dropped his hands from where they were cradling Az’s face. They landed on Az’s knees, fingers resuming the tracing of idle patterns. 

“Sorry,” Crowley said after a beat. “Got a bit overwhelmed.” 

Concerned, Az brushed the back of his knuckles along the underside of Crowley’s jaw. 

“Overwhelmed? Are you– did I say too much?” 

Crowley was shaking his head before Az had even finished speaking. “I’m fine. Really. Honestly, fine. It’s just… look, I have a history of people not wanting to be with me publicly. ‘S just what I’m used to.” 

Az saw red.

“You have a history with people who don’t know how to spot a good thing when it’s right in front of their faces, clearly,” he spat, running a finger over the shell of Crowley’s ear.

“Nah,” Crowley said. “I’ve got a history with people who are just a lot less angelic than you are. I was with people who treated me like that because I thought that they were the best I could do.” 

Az frowned, ready to speak, but Crowley kept talking. 

“I’ve gotten past that, but only in theory. Therapy, y’know. Been going for eighteen months or so, now. I’ve just–” He stopped. Took a breath. “I haven’t had anyone be this good to me in actual practice. It might take– take some time to let you be good to me.” 

“‘We accept the love we think we deserve,’” Az whispered. It was to himself, mostly, but Crowley heard it. 

“What?” 

“It’s from a novel,” Az explained, meeting Crowley’s eyes and holding his gaze steady. _"T_ _ he Perks of Being a Wallflower.  _ The subject matter is difficult, and it’s hard to read at times because of that. But it’s honest, and it’s hopeful. And there’s a line in there, one that’s stuck with me since I read it: ‘We accept the love we think we deserve.’” 

Crowley chuckled. He shifted around on the sofa and tugged Az close to his side again, draping a long arm around Az’s shoulders. 

“I know I deserve better than what I used to accept, which probably didn’t count as love,” Crowley said slowly. “Didn’t always know that. Do now.” 

“Good.” 

“I just thought you should, uh. Thought you should know.” 

Az dropped his head to the side, looking up at Crowley. “Thank you.” 

“Nothing to thank me for,” said Crowley, but he twisted his body forward to kiss the top of Az’s head anyway. “Just letting you know. Things that are relevant, things that could affect you – I don’t want you in the dark about those things.” 

Ah. Shit. 

Az had been trying to figure out how to broach the subject of asexuality with Crowley since the night they’d first kissed, and he hadn’t quite come to a decision about place or time. But Crowley was honest and good and kind and beautiful, and he’d told Az something that Az needed to know in order to have a functional relationship. Az needed to do the same.

“You’re wonderful,” Az said, nuzzling his nose into Crowley’s shoulder. It was solid and strong, and Az wanted to feel safe. 

“Mm.” Crowley’s cheeks turned pink. “Not all that wonderful.” 

Az wiggled, stretching up to press a kiss to one pink and freckle-covered cheek. 

“You are, and I simply won’t hear any arguments to the contrary.” 

Crowley’s golden eyes shone, and when he spoke, his words were coated in laughter. “You’re a stubborn angel, aren’t you?” 

“Oh, definitely.” Az kissed Crowley on the cheek again. “Very stubborn. Will of steel. I have a great many convictions, and I hold to them.” 

Crowley laughed out loud then, and the vibrations of it rippled through Az’s entire body. When he stopped, he fixed Az with a smirk and said, “And my being wonderful is one of them?” 

“A very important one.” 

“You’re a very strange angel.” 

“And you’re a very strange demon.” Az set his hand on Crowley’s knee, which was bouncing up and down in a rhythmless series of small motions. “I fancy you quite a lot, you know. Just in case you’d forgotten.” 

“I hadn’t,” Crowley muttered, but his face shifted from pink to red. “And I fancy you, too.” 

Az took a bracing breath and let his gaze fall to his lap. Time to talk about the thing. Time to get ready for the possibility that Crowley would call off this relationship less than fifteen minutes after it had become one. 

“And it’s because you’re wonderful and I fancy you that I think I should tell you something about me,” Az said, swallowing down the shaking feeling that wanted to imbed itself in his voice. “A quid pro quo for your honesty, shall we say. It’s an important truth that you need to know, because I want to do this right.” 

A small wrinkle creased the skin of Crowley’s forehead, but it was gone again in a fraction of a second. 

“Okay,” said Crowley. He didn’t stiffen or pull away. He just stayed as he was, impossibly gentle in spite of his strength, a source of light in dark-colored clothing. 

“I left London because I was tired of living in the city and because I wanted to open a bookshop. Before I came here, I was a professor at University College, and while that was a good thing in many respects, it just wasn’t quite what I wanted to do.” Crowley nodded, waiting. “But I also left for another reason. I was leaving someone behind.” 

“An ex-boyfriend,” Crowley said knowingly. 

“Yes. He and I had been seeing each other for a few years, and it was mostly good. But he and I differed in one very important respect, and when it came down to it, it was what stopped us from getting married.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t say anything. 

“He was…” Az stumbled, the right words catching momentarily in the back of his throat, “...interested in having sex, and I wasn’t. I’m  _ not _ .” 

“Did he pressure you?” 

Az stared. “Sorry?” 

“Your ex,” Crowley said. His nostrils flared, and something hot flickered in his eyes. “Did he pressure you into doing something you didn’t want to do?” 

Crowley’s response was lightyears away from the ones that Az had been expecting (and the ones he’d gotten before: rejection, confusion, dismissal, conditional acceptance), so it took him a moment to pick his jaw up from where it had landed on the floor. 

“Uh,” Az said, “no, not exactly. He never made me do anything, but he was always a little disappointed that my interests never shifted in a… trouserless direction, shall we say.” 

“That’s not how asexuality works,” Crowley said waspishly, and Az lost his train of thought once more.

“What?” 

“Asexuality,” repeated Crowley. “It’s a spectrum, yeah, but if you’re sex-repulsed, that’s not just going to change because you’re dating someone. If you were demi, it could, but. You aren’t.” 

Something like hope was rising in Az’s chest. “No, I’m not. I can say at this juncture with a very high degree of confidence that I’m quite firmly asexual. Sex-repulsed, as you said.”

There was a silver chain around Crowley’s neck. It had been there every time Az had seen Crowley, but whatever pendant hung on it was always tucked inside of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley reached for it now, a beautiful smile spreading across his lips and hollowing dimples in his cheeks. 

He tugged the chain out from beneath his shirt and held it out so that Az could see the two metal disks that hung on the end. One was blue, purple, and pink, but that wasn’t the one that Az focused on. 

It was the other, a small circle divided into four pieces. Black, grey, white, and purple. 

“You…” Az felt like he was moving through treacle, shock settling heavy in his limbs. “Crowley, you’re–” 

“Ace,” Crowley said with a shrug, his smile widening with every passing second. “Yeah. Sex-neutral, so a bit different than you, but. Yeah.” 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Az declared, and then he did. 

“Hi,” Crowley said when they broke apart. “We’re ace.” 

Az laughed. “Hello. We are.” 

“That’s… that’s fuckin’ cool.” 

“It is.” 

Crowley grinned and planted a kiss on the tip of Az’s nose. “Actually, y’know what it is?” 

“What?” Az asked, his face turning as red as Crowley’s had been a few minutes earlier. 

“A bloody miracle,” said Crowley. “Seeing as you’re an angel and all.” 

“You’re  _ wonderful, _ ” Az said again, and Crowley’s cheeks and ears flooded with a flush. 

Crowley leaned down and captured Az’s lips once more, some unintelligible words getting lost in the kiss. It went on for an unmeasured stretch of seconds, somehow more certain than any of the kisses they’d shared before. It felt like being treasured, and Az’s hands were starting to shake because of it. 

“You two are going to give me a toothache,” Anathema said from the doorway. 

Az and Crowley shot to opposite ends of the sofa like they’d been thrown there.

“I hate you,” Crowley growled. He picked up a paisley-patterned throw pillow from where it had fallen to the floor and lobbed it at Anathema’s head. 

Anathema snorted, ducking just in time. The pillow collided with the wall above her. 

“Hello, Anathema,” Az said timidly. It felt rather like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Fuck off, Anathema,” Crowley revised, reaching for another pillow. 

“I’m just getting a cup of tea.” Anathema shot Az a cheeky wink. “Carry on.” 

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Crowley slid down in his seat like ice cream in the summer. 

“Sorry.” 

“Perhaps we ought to consider a change of venue for those types of activities in the future,” Az suggested. 

“We wouldn’t have to do that if my best friend wasn’t four fucking years old.” Crowley raised his voice at the end of the sentence, making it loud enough that Anathema could hear. 

The sound of Az’s laugh mingled with Anathema’s, and Crowley’s face split into a smile that made Az wonder why people were so fond of sunsets. 

*********

“You never answered my question the other night,” Crowley said a few days later as he stuck a cinnamon-apple danish into a pastry bag and set it on the counter in front of Az. 

“What?” 

“Your top five favorite baked things.” Crowley glanced down at the screen of the cash register. “Three pounds forty.” 

“Ah,” Az said, counting out a few coins and placing them into Crowley’s outstretched palm. “No, I suppose I didn’t.” 

“I still want to know.” 

“I’ll have to think about it. Make up a list for you.” Az picked up his pastry and accepted a cardboard cup of tea (chai, this morning) from the dark-haired boy who was filling orders. “Hello, Brian.” 

“Hey, Mr. Fell,” Brian said. He gave Az a grin before ducking into the kitchen.

When Az had moved to Alton, he’d thought that Crowley and Anathema ran Bentley’s by themselves. In fact, they employed a few local university students who also happened to be a tight-knit group of friends. They’d been on holiday for Az’s first few weeks in Alton, and it had been quite a surprise to walk into the bakery one morning and find a young man with chestnut curls standing behind the register. 

In the time since that initial shock, Az had met all four members of the group, and they’d started coming into the bookshop when they needed a quiet place to study. Az had grown quite fond of them, and he was indebted to the leader of the group, Adam, for finding someone to hire as an extra set of hands around the shop. 

Adam was a clever kid with a wicked sense of humor and an overactive imagination – Az had been delighted to discover that he was trying to be an author – and he seemed to make more friends than anyone in Alton could keep up with. Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale were the core of his circle, of course, but Adam had a way of getting even the quietest people to like him. 

Warlock Dowling was one such person. He had dark hair that was long on one side and shaved on the other, and he had more than a couple piercings adorning various parts of his face. He dressed in whichever clothing he liked regardless of the gendered intentions of the designers, and Az liked him from the start. They were still getting to know each other, but the boy showed a great deal of competence and seemed happy to be anywhere where he could be himself. 

The bell over the door of the bakery signaled the arrival of a new customer, so Az motioned for Crowley to lean forward. Crowley did, and Az pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Guh,” Crowley said. 

Az shot him a wink and walked out the door, laughing to himself when Crowley called “S-see you later!” at his retreating back. 

*********

Az was sweeping the shop when the lock on the front door clicked open and Crowley sauntered in. 

“Hi,” Crowley said. He was carrying a small white box with  _ Bentley’s  _ stamped on the lid, and Az’s eyes landed on it as he raised himself to his toes to reach up and kiss the underside of Crowley’s jaw. 

“Hello.” 

“Brought you something.” Crowley moved out of the way of Az and the broom, skirting around to the register and jumping up onto the counter. 

“I see that, yes.” 

“From the list,” Crowley said with a grin. “Wanna see?” 

Az had finally given Crowley a written list of his five favorite baked goods after Crowley had continued to hound him for it, but Crowley hadn’t mentioned it again until now. It had been a few weeks, and Az had thought it was very likely that Crowley had misplaced it and had been too embarrassed to ask for a new copy. 

Az set his broom against a bookshelf and made his way over to Crowley, wiping his palms on his trousers. He came to a stop between Crowley’s legs and brushed a stray lock of red hair out of Crowley’s face, stifling a smile when Crowley shivered. 

“You didn’t have to make anything from the list, you know,” Az said. 

“I know.” Crowley’s eyes were trained on Az’s mouth. 

“But I suppose if you did…” Az leaned in close, letting his nose bump Crowley’s. The space between their lips was an inch, two at most, and filled with electricity. “...I should try whatever it is you put all of that time and effort into baking.” 

He snatched the pastry box from where it had been resting on Crowley’s thigh and backed away, breaking the tape that held it shut with a quick motion of his forefinger. 

Crowley made an indignant noise. “You– fuck  _ me.  _ You’re a bloody tease, angel.” 

“Ooh,” said Az. “Macarons! Lovely, thank you.” 

“They’re raspberry and chocolate,” Crowley ground out, still staring intently at Az’s lips. “You bastard.” 

Az, for all of his softness and kindness, was certainly in possession of more than one trait befitting that description, so he was determined to make the most of this moment. Carefully, he removed a single macaron from the box, stopping his hand just before it reached his mouth. 

Crowley outright  _ whimpered, _ and it was all Az could do not to burst into laughter. 

“I suppose that was rather cruel of me,” Az conceded with a smirk. “I really ought to have given you a choice.” 

“Choice?” 

“Yes,” said Az. “Would you like to kiss me before I try this, or after?” 

“Both,” Crowley said, scrambling off of the counter in a tangled mess of movements that made Az think of a river with rapids. “I choose both.” 

The macaron in Az’s hand barely made it back into the box before Crowley grabbed both sides of Az’s face and kissed him. It was on the soft side of being hard, firm and sweet, and Az went slightly weak at the knees. When Crowley kissed him like this, he could  _ feel  _ that Crowley was attracted to him. It was in everything, laced through each of Crowley’s motions. The gentle strokes of Crowley’s thumbs, the way Crowley practically clung to Az by pressing the lean length of his body against Az’s belly and chest. 

“I adore you, you know,” Az said against Crowley’s mouth. 

Crowley’s hands trembled, and his beautiful lips curved into a smile. 

“Eat your bloody macaron, Az, or I’ll kiss you again before you can.” 

Az did as he was told, shifting his body just far enough away that he could reopen the box. Crowley’s hands shot to Az’s sides, sliding around to press into the dimples of his back. 

_ You are a marvel,  _ Az thought. He met Crowley’s eyes for a fleeting moment, and then he took a small bite of his macaron and let his eyes slip shut, taking it in. The chew of the cookie, the sharpness of the fruit, the smoothness of the chocolate. 

When he opened his eyes again, Crowley was still looking at him, and the blatant adoration in his eyes made them seem impossibly more beautiful than they’d ever been before. 

“Delicious,” Az said, fully conscious of the fact that his lungs were operating at about half capacity. 

The skin around Crowley’s eyes crinkled when he grinned, and the grip that Crowley had on Az’s body tightened. Az found himself pressed to Crowley again, stuck fast like he’d been glued there. 

“You’re so fucking pretty.” 

It was quiet, said to the top of Az’s head rather than to his face, but Az’s heart skipped a few consecutive beats. Silently, he popped the rest of his macaron into his mouth and placed his arms around Crowley’s narrow waist. 

“For someone who hasn’t had nearly enough goodness in his life,” Az said into Crowley’s chest, “you certainly have the incomparable ability to dole it out.” 

Crowley’s blush was practically audible. A loose, unconnected stream of letters spilled out of his mouth, and his fingers flexed into the softness of Az’s back. It took him a minute to formulate a coherent response, but when he managed to force the words past his lips, they made time bend into a circle. 

“It’s easy when it’s you. I’d walk through the stars to bring you the moon if you asked.” 

The one part of Az’s brain that hadn’t gone dark at that was entirely certain that Crowley’s knack for making him go speechless was some sort of demonic miracle. Crowley was sarcastic and spoke in clipped sentences. He tended to stumble over words and cut them short whenever he could, and he tossed swear words into sentences like the things he said wouldn’t make sense without them. He was a linguistic nightmare most of the time, but when it mattered, he wasn’t. When it came down to it, Crowley said things that made the sky fall and fire freeze, and it did things to Az’s heart that he couldn’t find words to describe. 

So instead of trying to come up with something to say, Az took Crowley by the hand and pulled him upstairs, still clutching the small pastry box in his other hand. Crowley went willingly and without breaking the silence, and when they got into the main room of Az’s flat, he sank down onto the sofa. 

“I prefer older poetry most of the time,” Az said carefully, setting the pastry box down on his coffee table. “But there are some excellent modern ones.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” A steadying breath, and then Az began to recite a poem that had seared itself in his memory on the night he’d first kissed Crowley. “‘You were you and I was I; we were two before our time. I was yours before I knew, and you have always been mine, too.’" 

"Oh," breathed Crowley.

"t makes me think of you," Az said. "Of– of what I want to be – what I want to have – with you.” 

Crowley took Az’s hand again. He tugged Az down onto the cushion next to him and wrapped an arm around his waist, smiling all the time. 

“Yours,” said Crowley after a moment, tapping himself on the chest. Two fingers, a quick double-touch. Right over his heart. 

Az mimicked the motion over his own heart. “Yours.” 

Crowley kept his arm around Az’s hips, but he reached over with the hand that had done the tapping and laced his fingers through Az’s. His hands (and forearms, but those were sadly hidden beneath the sleeves of his overshirt) were littered with scars from years of baking, and a plaster was currently playing the role of a ring around his pinky finger. They were bony and dotted with faint freckles in the gaps between scars, an abstract painting that was different from the Monet of the rest of his skin. 

Az thought they were beautiful, so he said as much. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned how lovely your hands are, my darling.” 

Crowley huffed a laugh. “You’re having me on.” 

“I most certainly am not,” Az said, and he bent over to press a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles. “I think they’re quite fetching. I’ve spent a good many hours longer than I should probably admit thinking about them.” 

“Ghn.” 

“The first time you shook my hand, I nearly forgot how to stay standing.” 

“Bullshit,” Crowley crowed, but he was grinning. 

“No, really,” Az insisted. “I might not want to sleep with you, Crowley, but I am certainly  _ very  _ fond of looking at you. Touching you, too, as it happens.” He jostled their interlocked hands. “Kissing you, as well. Another thing I’m fond of.” 

“I’m not much to look at,” Crowley said casually, and Az could tell that he genuinely believed it. “But you? Fuck’s sake. Should be illegal to look like you do.” 

“You’re completely mad.” 

“Not.” Crowley was smirking, the little quirk of his lips sending Az’s heart into overdrive. How could he not know how beautiful he was? “You’re just the most beautiful fucking person I’ve ever seen in my entire damn life. ‘S just the facts.” 

Az could feel his face growing warmer by the moment, and he was determined to make Crowley’s do the same. 

“Crowley, I have never been as attracted to another man as I am to you.” 

“Bullshit,” Crowley said again, but it was softer this time. Smaller. Fragile. 

“Goodness, darling. I know you own a mirror – have you ever  _ used  _ it?” 

Crowley’s ears were brighter than his hair. Az was smugly satisfied with that result.

“Shut up,” Crowley said, and it was the most romantic thing Az had ever heard. 

“Oh, I think you might have to make that happen.” Honey-colored eyes widened behind Crowley’s glasses, and he moved to rest his forehead against Az’s. “I’m not bound to stop telling you how beautiful you are unless you do.” 

As it happened, Crowley’s method of getting Az to stop talking was very effective. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://www.cloudykitchen.com/blog/raspberry-and-dark-chocolate-macarons) is a raspberry-and-chocolate macaron recipe! I've tried it, and it's delicious. 
> 
> (Also, to all y'all who have left comments or sent messages to me on Tumblr about enjoying these recipes - please feel free to send me your results if you ever try making any of them!)


	6. Victoria Sandwiches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock confesses something to Az, and Crowley makes Az's thirtieth birthday one to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This is a longish chapter, sorry. The latter portion has burning a hole in my brain for weeks now, and I'm so happy y'all will be able to read it! Fair warning: it's incredibly cheesy and fluffy, but I think it's sweet. (Also, a note on editing: It's an absurd hour of morning where I am, so I'm posting this chapter without looking too closely for grammar errors - sorry. I'll do a better proofread when I get up in the morning!) I've had a rough week, so I don't know how the quality of this chapter compares to others, but I hope it's alright. 
> 
> We're almost to the end of this fic, friends! Couple chapters to go. I hope you've enjoyed it! And I know I'm behind on comments - I'm working on it, I promise! I see you all, and I am so grateful for your encouragement. 
> 
> Warnings: mentions of parents avoiding the topic of having a LGBTQ+ kid (this is about Warlock, and it's brief and not extreme), and language.

When Az re-emerged from his back room with two boxes of Austen paperbacks in his arms, Warlock was leaning against the counter with his head in his hands. He’d been uncharacteristically twitchy for the past few weeks, and Az was past the point of being merely worried about him. 

“Warlock,” Az said, and the boy jumped halfway out of his skin. “Are you quite alright, my dear fellow?”

“Yeah, ‘course. Sorry.” Warlock shoved a half-smile onto his face and turned toward the stack of used books that he was supposed to be logging into inventory. 

“I think we ought to close for lunch, don’t you?” 

Warlock spun around, metal-pierced eyebrows drawing together in confusion. They usually took their lunches at different times in order to allow the bookshop to remain open, but there was something in Warlock’s demeanor today that made Az willing to sacrifice an hour of business. 

Az set the boxes down on the floor behind the register and motioned for Warlock to follow him. Warlock did, shoving his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and falling into step next to Az. 

“Something isn’t quite right with you,” Az said when he’d finished flipping the sign in the window ‘Closed’ and locking the door. “I don’t mean to pry, but I must admit to being concerned.” 

“It’s really nothing, Mr. Fell.”

“We’ve known each other for a few months, Warlock,” Az chastised gently. “I do think it’s about time that you do as I’ve been asking and call me Az.” 

The corners of Warlock’s thin lips turned upward. “Right, sure. Then it’s really nothing, _Az._ ” 

“Thank you,” said Az. He shot Warlock a smile. “Now, though, I still would like to know what’s been on your mind. I know that there aren’t always a lot of people to confide in at home —” Warlock had previously mentioned that his parents didn’t really seem to care much about what he chose to do or take interest in, and Az had sworn in that moment that he’d be a safe place for Warlock to land “—so if there’s something you need to talk about, please do go ahead.” 

Warlock kicked a pebble into the street with a black-booted foot. He sighed, his shoulders rolling forward, and for a brief moment Az was worried that he’d pressed too far and had forced the young man to talk about some terrible trauma. 

But then Warlock said, “It’s stupid, I swear. I just… I like someone, and it’s getting to be a problem.” 

Az reached up (Warlock was taller than he was — most men were, really) and patted Warlock on the shoulder, trying to hide his grin. It was never fun to be the one with an all-consuming crush on someone, but there was something enjoyable about being the person who got to hear about it. 

“You ‘like’ someone?” Az asked. It wasn’t really prying if he was clarifying, was it? 

Warlock grunted. “Mm-hm. Fancy ‘em.” 

“I’m familiar with the experience.” 

“Yeah,” Warlock said, and he shot Az a teasing smirk. “I know. I’ve seen how you get when you talk to Crowley.” 

Az waggled a finger in Warlock’s direction even as he went pink in the cheeks, and Warlock had the audacity to laugh at him. 

“We aren’t talking about my relationship,” said Az. “We’re talking about this person you fancy.” 

“Are we?”

The question might have sounded evasive if Warlock hadn’t looked like he’d just taken his first deep breath in weeks. However, given that Warlock _did_ have that look on his face, Az decided to delve whole-heartedly into the mission of making a nosy menace of himself. 

“What’s their name?” 

Warlock blushed a vibrant shade of red and got busy staring at the pavement. 

“You, uh. You know him.” 

“Ah,” Az said. _Him._ Evidently, Az’s suspicions that Warlock might not be exclusively (or at all) interested in female-presenting persons had been correct. He felt like cheering; there was just something nice about meeting someone like oneself, wasn’t there? “Well, consider me sworn to secrecy, then.” 

“You won’t… you won’t tell him?” 

“I am frankly offended that you would even suggest that I might,” Az said fussily, and Warlock laughed again. 

“Right. Cool.” He stared ahead for a moment. Dropped his eyes back down to his shoes. “It’s— shit, I haven’t told anyone before, give me a…” Warlock sucked in a bracing breath. “...Adam. It’s Adam.” 

“Oh,” said Az. “He’s a lovely boy. I’m very fond of him.” 

They stopped in front of a chip stand, and Az put the conversation on hold as he ordered, paid for, and received lunch for himself and Warlock. 

“Az,” Warlock said as they settled themselves onto a nearby bench, “no offense or anything, but why do you talk like my nan? You’re probably, what, a decade older than me?” 

“Thereabouts.” Az took a bite of one of his chips. “But in answer to your question: I grew up reading a lot of classic English literature, and I kept at it throughout my studies at university. I even taught the subject for a few years. I suppose the grammar must’ve stuck.” 

“Ah.” 

“You’ve gotten us off-topic again,” said Az, and Warlock huffed a sigh around a mouthful of fried fish. “Tell me about Adam.” 

“I don’t even know if he’s…” Warlock trailed off, waving a hand in a loose circle in the air. “You know. Into blokes.” 

Az, surprisingly, was able to shed some light on that particular point of inquiry. Crowley had mentioned an ex-boyfriend of Adam’s once as part of a story, and when Az had asked the logical clarifying question as to the direction of Adam’s romantic interests, Crowley had affirmed that Adam’s attraction to people wasn’t contingent on the gender of those people. 

So Az said, “Well, I can assure you that he has a romantic history with at least one young man,” and for a moment, Warlock’s smile rivaled the sun. 

“Well, that’s one thing down, but. Still don’t know how he’d feel about the idea of anything more than platonic with me.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you know what sorts of things he likes to do?”

Warlock shrugged and shoved a chip in his mouth. “Yeah, I guess. He writes a lot. Watches movies with his friends, drinks a lot of coffee, plays with his dog — he named his dog Dog, did you know that? — and uh. Other stuff like that.” 

“Why don’t you ask if you might take him for a coffee?” 

“We do that already,” Warlock said. “With Brian and Wensley and Pepper. Couple times a week, at least.” 

Az resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “Why don’t you ask _just Adam_ if he’d like to go for a coffee sometime?” 

“Oh.” Warlock poked at a piece of fish with his forefinger. “Like, uh. Like a date, you mean?” 

“Just so, yes.” 

“I’ve never done that before,” Warlock said. He prodded his fish again. 

“I’m no expert myself, and I’m afraid I can’t vouch for Crowley’s skills in this particular arena, either. He’s a magician with bread and pastry, but I had to ask the man why he hadn’t kissed me yet in order to get him to do it, so.” 

Warlock snorted. “Yeah, probably not the best call to ask Crowley, then.” 

“Probably not.” 

Silence fell over the bench, and Az finished the remainder of his lunch quickly and quietly. It was best to give these sorts of things a moment to breathe, in his experience. Ideas like this one weren’t always easily accepted by those they were proposed to. 

“I guess I could try,” Warlock said after a few minutes of this. “Worst case, I lose the best friends I’ve ever had, right?” 

Az set a hand on Warlock’s shoulder again, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I really don’t see that happening, my dear boy.” 

“No?” 

“No.” Az gathered up the wrappings from his lunch as well as Warlock’s and tossed them into the bin. “I suppose it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely with this particular group.” 

“Right, okay.” 

A blast of freezing late-autumn air swept down the street, and Warlock and Az both shivered as though they’d choreographed it. 

“Back to the shop, then?” 

Warlock nodded. “Yeah. Getting bloody cold out, innit?”

“That does tend to happen,” Az said with a smirk. “Winter has a way of coming around on an annual basis.” 

The expression on Warlock’s face was a carbon copy of the one Crowley always had in the moments before he called Az a bastard, and Az couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the sight of it. 

Warlock evidently thought better of calling his boss that particular word, because he shook his head and said, “Thanks for, uh. Talking about this thing.” 

“Any time,” Az said.

“Really, thank you. You know I don’t always have someone to chat to about stuff — can’t even come close to talking to my dad about clothes or blokes or things like that, y’know. He’s… well, he’s what I’ve heard people call ‘hypermasculine,’ so he’s not exactly a fan of the fact that I’m very, _very_ gay.” 

“Ah.” Az was itching to give Warlock a hug. 

“It makes things difficult,” Warlock said. 

“I can imagine.” It had started raining, so Az picked up his pace and turned up the collar of his coat. “I’m terribly sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Warlock said with a small shrug. “Just nice to have someone to talk to about it. ‘S not that interesting, I know, but still. Means a lot that you listened. Gave me advice and stuff.” 

“Any time,” Az repeated, and this time he made it clear that he meant it. “That is a sincere offer, for the record. I know that I’m your employer, but I _do_ care about you, and I’d like to know that you have someone to come to with issues like these. I’d be more than happy to be that person, if you’d like me to be.” 

Warlock looked momentarily like he’d swallowed his tongue.

“Thanks,” he managed after a moment. 

“Your father might not wish to hear about your romantic endeavors, my dear, but I’m certainly willing to fill that hole. I can’t say that I have much in the way of paternal instincts, but I suppose we’ll have to see.” 

A wide grin was spreading across Warlock’s face, and he didn’t stop smiling even as he said, “So you’d be like, what? A gay godfather or something?” 

Az laughed. “Much better than a fairy godmother, don’t you think?” 

“Much,” Warlock agreed. “Thanks, Az.” 

“It’s my pleasure,” Az said as he unlocked the bookshop door. He pushed it open, holding it so that Warlock could duck inside first. “I knew there was a good reason I moved to Alton.” 

Warlock shook his head again, sending a fine mist of water droplets across the floor. 

“I don’t think that’s me,” he said. “The reason’s got more freckles than I do.” 

He disappeared into the stacks with a teasing smirk that rivaled even Crowley’s, leaving Az standing in the doorway with half-formed words of protest on his lips. 

*********

Az’s birthday was in the middle of December, dead in the middle of the strange no-man’s-land of days around Christmas. It was easy to forget, easy to gloss over, and no one had done too much to celebrate it since Az was a child. His parents had always made a big deal of it, and even after his father had passed, his mum always sent him flowers and rang him up to sing to him. For the better part of two decades, though, even Az himself had been treating his birthday as something only marginally more important than any other winter day. 

Crowley, however, had a very different outlook on the importance of birthdays. He had asked the date of Az’s birthday less than a month after they’d started dating, and Az had watched with mild confusion and not a small amount of joy as Crowley had marked the date down on his calendar. 

The week before Az’s birthday, Crowley had mentioned that he’d made some sort of birthday-related dinner plan for the Friday of the following week, and Az had accepted this with enthusiasm and a great many kisses. He’d spent the days leading up to that dinner date thinking about what Crowley might have planned for him (because no matter how many times he asked or which tactics he employed, Crowley refused to give away any hints about the nature of the outing), and he’d come up with a few ideas that he thought were more than possible. 

What he had never considered was that he might answer the knock at the door on the evening of the birthday-event to find someone who was not Crowley standing on the other side of it. 

“Hello,” Az said politely. The man who smiled back at him was wearing a waistcoat and a cravat, which simply added to Az’s befuddlement. “May I help you?” 

“Good evening, Mr. Fell,” said the man. “My name is Charles, and I’ll be your valet for the evening.” 

Az stared at him. “My what?” 

“Your valet,” Charles said again. “I’m here to help you dress, sir.” 

“I’m quite capable of dressing myself, thank you,” Az said primly, wondering what sort of joke this was going to turn out to be. 

And then a wonderfully familiar voice said, “Let the man in, angel,” and Crowley stepped out of the shadows and into view. 

Az had thought that Crowley couldn’t possibly get more attractive. There was something about his red curls and freckles in combination with his easy smile and modern-style dark clothes that made Crowley the most beautiful man Az had ever seen, and he’d never dreamed that there could be a way to improve upon that. Even the thought of Crowley in a tuxedo, while certainly the stuff of dreams, hadn’t been enough to diminish the inherent beauty of his normal way of dressing. 

He’d been wrong, apparently, because the sight of Crowley in regency dress was turning Az’s brain inside out. Crowley was wearing black boots, stockings, and breeches, and Az saw a flash of something silver and royal blue in the gap between his open overcoat.

“Oh, good _lord,_ ” Az said, and Crowley’s face split into a grin. 

“Hello to you, too,” said Crowley. “Happy birthday.” 

“What is all of this?” 

“Part of the surprise,” Crowley said with a wink. “Are you planning to let Charles in? It’s bloody freezing out here.” 

“Of course, of course. My apologies, Charles.” 

“There’s nothing to apologize for, sir.” Charles stepped into the bookshop. There was a black garment bag over his arm and a large leather bag in his hand. With a nod to Crowley, Charles walked toward the back stairs. 

“Crowley,” Az started, but Crowley cut him off by bounding up the steps and pressing his lips to Az’s. 

“Let’s go get you dressed,” Crowley said after he’d finished making Az’s knees go wobbly. “You’ll understand soon enough, I swear.” 

“You’re insufferable,” Az complained, but he let Crowley take him by the hand anyway. 

When they walked into Az’s flat, Charles was standing in the bedroom, laying out a variety of tools on the top of Az’s dressing table. 

“Ah, excellent. Are you ready to begin, sir?” 

“I suppose,” Az said. 

“Very good, sir. Shall I ask Mr. Crowley to take leave of us for a few minutes?” 

Oh, right. Az was going to have to strip down to his underthings, which was something that he still hadn’t done in front of Crowley. It wasn’t a thing that Az took lightly; he was more than content with the soft shape of his body, and Crowley had proven time and time again that he held nothing but affection for Az’s softest parts, but getting undressed with Crowley in the room was something that felt like it deserved a bit more gravitas than was present with the current situation. 

“Ah,” Az said, meeting Crowley’s eyes for a brief moment. “My dear, would you mind?” 

Crowley smiled down at him. “Not at all. I’ll be downstairs.” 

With one more brief kiss to Az’s lips, Crowley strode out of the room. 

“If we lived during regency times, Mr. Fell, I would help you with nearly every step of this process,” Charles said once Crowley’s footsteps were muffled by distance. “However, given that we are in the twenty-first century, I’d imagine that you would like to undress yourself.” 

“Thank you,” Az said. He did so quickly, and was thankful that Charles handed him a pair of white breeches and a pale blue cotton shirt without commenting or offering to assist. 

“Comfortable, sir?” Charles asked when Az had donned the shirt and trousers.

“Quite. Thank you, Charles.” This was a surprise in and of itself; Az hadn’t had high hopes that the clothes Charles had brought would fit properly, but they did. 

“Of course, sir.” 

A pair of long stockings were next, which Charles helped Az smooth down under the bottom of his breeches. A white waistcoat was slipped over Az’s arms, and Charles closed the buttons down the front. He ran a small brush over the fabric, and then he turned up the collar on Az’s shirt and slid a tartan-patterned cravat around Az’s neck. 

Az couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of it, and Charles pulled away with a frown. 

“Is everything quite alright, sir?” 

“Yes, yes,” Az said, swallowing the last of his laughter and giving Charles a small smile. “It’s only… well, it’s only that my partner knows me very well.” 

“I am glad to hear it, sir,” Charles said, tying the cravat with deft motions of his fingers. “If you might forgive me for saying so, sir, I think that Mr. Crowley seems like an excellent sort of man.” 

“I quite agree, Charles.” 

It was ridiculous, really, that Az fell into the habit of chatting with his valet (his valet!) as quickly and easily as he did. He learned that Charles was married while Charles shined his boots, and Charles offered up the names and ages of his three children as he helped Az into a heather grey tailcoat. 

“You look very nice, sir,” Charles said eventually. He stepped away and walked in a tight circle, looking Az over from head to toe. “I think your young man will be pleased.” 

“I hope he will,” Az said. 

Crowley was standing at a bookshelf a few meters away from the stairwell. Judging from the way his golden eyes were growing wider by the second, Charles had been right. 

“Hello,” Az said softly. 

Crowley didn’t say anything for a moment. He stood perfectly still, looking at Az like Az was a painting in the Louvre. When he did speak, it was a single word. A single syllable. 

“Wow.”

Az knew that he would never find the words to respond to that, so he reached up and pulled Crowley’s face down to his, catching Crowley’s sound of pleased surprise against his lips. 

“Thank you,” Az said when they broke apart. “Crowley, this is— _thank you._ ” 

“We’re not even close to done, angel.” Silver specks were dancing in Crowley’s eyes, and he held out his elbow. Az slipped his hand through it, and Crowley led him back to the front door with Charles trailing behind. 

“Your overcoat, Mr. Fell,” Charles said before they stepped outside. “Mr. Crowley said that your usual would be sufficient for the occasion, so I’ve taken the liberty of retrieving it for you.” 

“Thank you, Charles,” Az said, disentangling his arm from Crowley’s to allow himself to be helped into his coat. “You have been a wonderful help.” 

“It’s what I’m here for, sir,” Charles said. With a wink and a short bow, Charles opened the door, leaving Crowley and Az standing in the doorway. 

“Where did you find him?” Az asked. 

Crowley waggled his eyebrows. “As if I’m going to tell you that. Honestly, Az, can’t some things just be a mystery?” 

“You’re a horrid, horrid man.”

“Oh, of course,” Crowley laughed. “Right, next thing: time to go to the carriage.” 

Az’s “The what?” was lost in the wind as Crowley pulled him into the night. It was a question very easily answered, as it happened, because the moment they stepped outside, Az saw it. 

Crowley was locking the door to Az’s shop, so Az tugged on his sleeve. 

“Crowley.” 

“Yeah?” 

“That’s… that’s _really_ a carriage.” 

Crowley made a scoffind noise under his breath. “Of course it’s really a carriage. Did you think I was going to dress like this and then get on my motorbike? She wouldn’t start. She’d rebel, angel. Honestly.” 

“You look marvelous,” Az said quickly, mentally kicking himself for not making that fact abundantly clear from the start. “Truly. I didn’t think… I didn’t think that I could possibly find you more beautiful, darling, but you’ve managed it tonight.” 

When Crowley turned and offered his arm to Az again, he was blushing. 

“Shut up,” Crowley said, and Az took his arm with a laugh. 

The carriage driver helped Az into the cab with a “Good evening, sir.” Crowley climbed into the carriage after a word with the driver, settling himself in the seat across from Az. 

“Okay, I suppose I might have another reason for our means of transportation tonight,” Crowley said as the carriage lurched to a start. 

“Oh?” 

“Nobody would have ridden a motorcycle to a ball, I don’t think,” Crowley said. “And I’m trying to do this whole thing the best I can. You won’t believe the internet research I’ve done these past few weeks — my search history is a mess.” 

Az hardly heard anything after the word ‘ball.’ His mind was racing, and time seemed to be standing still or running backwards, and he had exactly one coherent thought. 

_I’m in love with you._

Fortunately, Az had the presence of mind not to say this out loud, so he settled on “Sorry, did you say a ball?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley’s smile was almost shy, and Az wanted to kiss it off of his lips. “I invited everyone you know as well as a lot of the folks Ana and I know. There aren’t any gifts — I just had everyone pitch in for this whole thing, y’know, so no one brought anything tangible, I hope that’s alri—” 

“Crowley,” Az broke in, “do shut up so that I can kiss you.” 

Crowley went a very fetching shade of pink underneath his freckles, and Az leaned forward to slot their mouths together. He did his best to kiss Crowley like he loved him. The words weren’t right, not now, but he wanted Crowley to know. He wanted Crowley to feel it, somehow, to understand how he felt without his having to say it. 

“You’re a marvel,” Az said after a few long seconds. “Truly.” 

“I thought I was horrid,” Crowley teased. 

“You _are._ Horrid and a marvel. I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive, dearest.” 

The pet name made Crowley sit up straighter, and for a brief moment, Az worried that he’d done something wrong. 

“I suppose you should know who you’re going to this ball with, shouldn’t you?” Crowley asked, and Az raised an eyebrow. 

“If you’ve brought me some regency-era actor as an escort, Crowley, you should call and send him home. I have no intention of going to this ball on anyone’s arm but yours.” 

Crowley’s blush deepened, and he ran a hand through his hair. 

“That’s, uh,” said Crowley. “Ngh. Bloody hell. I’m your escort, Az, I swear. I just… look, we’re almost to the place, so I’m going to make this quick.” 

Az was, in a word, baffled. “What are you going on about?” 

“Anthony James Crowley.” Crowley stuck out his hand. “Of Pemberley.” 

_Anthony. Anthony James._ Crowley’s name. 

“Mr. Crowley,” Az said, trying valiantly (and failing) to keep from smiling. He slid his hand into Crowley’s and gave it a firm shake. “Az Fell. It’s a pleasure. I believe I recognize the name of your house — a descendant of Fitzwilliam Darcy, are you?” This last bit was more teasing than anything else, and Crowley’s eyes shone with the recognition of it. 

“Something like that, yes. You’re very observant, Mr. Fell.” Crowley turned their hands ninety degrees and pulled his fingers back so that the pads rested against the top of Az’s palm. He pressed a kiss to Az’s knuckles, sending shocks of electricity through Az’s bones. The carriage jolted to a stop, and Crowley waved his unoccupied hand at the darkened window. “Ah. It would appear that we’ve arrived.” 

Proper grammar sounded strange in Crowley’s casual voice, but Az loved him for trying. There was no part of this, no part of this thing Crowley had done for him, that Az didn’t love completely. 

Az allowed the driver to help him out of the carriage, and when he and Crowley were standing on solid ground again, he took Crowley’s elbow once more. 

“It’s not much,” Crowley said, gesturing to the small stone building, “but it’s what we have to work with.” 

“It’s perfect,” Az said, because it was. 

The doors opened as if on cue, and Az recognized the grinning faces of Brian and Wensleydale in the entryway. They were dressed in modern suits, and they were both looking at Crowley like they were trying not to laugh. 

“Mr. Fell,” said Brian, “may I take your overcoat, sir?” 

“Yes, thank you, Brian,” Az said. He walked arm-in-arm with Crowley into the building, stopping once they were inside to let the young men take their coats. 

It was the first time that Az was given a good look at what Crowley was wearing. His waistcoat was black, but a paisley pattern was stitched into it with shiny royal blue thread. The stitching on his waistcoat perfectly matched the color of his tailcoat, which was adorned with metal buttons. His shirt was black as well, and a light grey cravat the color of Az’s tailcoat was tied around his neck. 

“You are loveliness itself,” Az said, and Crowley’s cheeks turned a very warm shade of red. 

“Misquoting _Emma_ on the night I throw you an Austenian ball,” Crowley mumbled under his breath. “The things I put up with.” 

“Are you going to go in?” Brian asked, evidently having grown impatient with this exchange. “It’s all done up in there, Mr. Fell. Crowley did all this—” 

“Brian,” Crowley growled, “shut it.” 

Wensleydale opened the second set of doors, and Az gasped. 

The room was full of candles and flowers, and a string quartet in the corner began to play a piece of music that was familiar and yet not precisely recognizable. Anathema and Newt (who were both wearing trousers, waistcoats, and cravats, which made Az break into elated giggles) were standing in the center of the dance floor, giving a waltz their best attempt. Warlock was engaged in conversation with Marjorie and her husband, Shadwell, but he shot Az a grin and raised his glass of wine in Crowley’s direction. Adam and Pepper appeared from either side of a set of tables, holding cool glasses of champagne. 

“Thank you,” Az said as he accepted his glass from Adam. 

“Happy birthday, sir,” Adam said with a wink. 

Crowley took a matching glass from Pepper, and then he guided Az into the middle of the room. 

“Good evening,” Crowley said at a near-shout, and the room fell silent. “Mr. Fell and I extend our gratitude to each of you for coming to this attempt at an approximation of a ball from the time of Jane Austen. It’s not perfect—” he looked at Az and winked “—but seeing as none of us are made of money, the large houses and castles around here were slightly out of budget.” The room filled with polite chuckles, and Crowley continued on. “It was Mr. Fell’s thirtieth birthday this week, as all of you know by now, and I thought that this would be a halfway decent way to celebrate such a landmark occasion.” 

There was a shouted “Cheers!” that sounded suspiciously like it might have come from Warlock, and Crowley and Az both dissolved into laughter. 

“Yes, cheers,” Crowley said. “To my beautiful boyfriend, and to the idea that men like us _can_ have an Austenian romance, even if it’s only for one night.” 

Cheers and whistles erupted from every corner of the room, and Az buried his grin in Crowley’s chest. 

“Anyway, thank you. And with that: you all know how this goes. Eat, drink, be merry and all that — I’ve got cakes for later, but for now, your time is yours!”

With a bow, Crowley took Az by the hand and pulled him off of the dance floor. They took seats next to each other at a mostly open table, but all of the things that Az wanted to say to Crowley were put on hold while they fielded well-wishes and compliments about the venue or their suits for the better part of a quarter of an hour. 

Az felt like he was going to burst, so he patted Crowley’s hand and said, “Darling, would you come with me for a moment?” 

Crowley’s brow folded into concerned lines, and he excused them both from the table with a word and a shallow bow. They wove through the crowd until they found themselves back in the front room, away from the noise and blessedly alone. 

“Az, are you okay?” 

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” Az said. “It’s, oh. Crowley, it’s _wonderful._ It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen. It must have cost quite a lot.” 

“Not too much,” Crowley said, stepping close to Az and running his big hands down the slope of Az’s back. “Everyone in that room helped me pay for this. Honestly, the most tedious part of all of this was convincing your tailor to make regency-era suits. He wasn’t pleased.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” Az’s heart was beating nearly out of his chest, and he was certain that Crowley could feel it. “Ridiculous.” 

“No, ‘m not,” Crowley said sternly. “This is cheesy, sure, and I was a bit worried that you’d hate it, but. You don’t. I can tell that you don’t. You’re… you’re _happy,_ Az.” 

“Of course I’m happy, you daftie,” Az said. “You’re here, aren’t you?” 

Crowley made a noise that implied that Az had socked him in the stomach. 

“This is perfect, Crowley. The perfect birthday. The perfect _anything._ But you know that I don’t need anything like this to be happy, don’t you?” _I love you. I’m in love with you._ “All I need, darling, is _you._ You, doing anything with me, being anywhere with me.” 

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Okay.” 

“But this?” Az reached up and tucked a loose lock of red hair behind Crowley’s ear. “What you did for me tonight, Crowley, is nothing short of pure magic.” 

“Glad you, ngh. Glad you like it.” 

“I love it.” _I love you._ “I only wish that Austen herself could see this, don’t you? I think she’d be proud.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said with a grin. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, deep and gentle and slow. “Yeah, I think she would.” 

Az wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist and drew him in close. He knew that he would never tire of this feeling, of the sound of Crowley’s racing heart under his ears, of the way Crowley’s hands pressed into his soft body like they’d been built to find a home there. 

“Take me dancing, Mr. Crowley,” Az said, and Crowley’s chest rumbled with a laugh. 

“But of course, Mr. Fell.” Crowley laced his fingers through Az’s. “This is your ball, after all. There ought to be dancing.” 

“Lead on, then.” 

Az would soon discover that neither he nor Crowley were very gifted at any sort of formal dance. They stepped on each other’s boots more often than the floor, and Crowley nearly fell backwards on more than one occasion, and it was completely and utterly perfect. 

There was a moment on the dance floor that burned itself into Az’s memory. Crowley had spun Az away from his body in a clumsy turn, and Az was being reeled back in by strong arms and scarred hands. The lights overhead were dim, and candlelight was weaving itself into Crowley’s hair, and Crowley had thrown his head back in a laugh. His cravat was loose, and there was a thin sheen of sweat over his freckled face. 

Az’s vision turned everything around Crowley to smoke. He could no longer hear the music or the chatter of nearby conversations, and his ears filled with the smoky-bright sound of Crowley’s laughter. His feet didn’t feel like they were on the floor any longer; the only thing he felt was Crowley’s fingers brushing against his and the weight of Crowley’s arm settling around his shoulders. 

In that moment, Az’s thoughts changed from the refrain of _I love you. I’m in love with you_ that had been echoing in his mind for the past few hours. It became _I want this forever. I want_ **_you_ ** _forever._

It was an insane thought, and Az knew it. He’d known Crowley for close to nine months, and had been dating him for much less than that. There was no rational reason for Az to be thinking about Crowley with a gold band around his ring finger or crawling out of Az’s bed at four in the morning every day. It shouldn’t have been a consideration, shouldn’t have been so much as a blip in Az’s thoughts, and yet there it was.

Az let Crowley pull him all the way back in, felt Crowley’s opposite hand settle on his waist again. He rocked side to side with Crowley in a butchered version of a box dance, pressing kisses to Crowley’s strong chest. 

“Hey,” Crowley said a few minutes later, his cheeks ruddy from dancing and laughing. “Time for cake, I think.” 

“One more minute.” 

“Mm,” said Crowley. “Okay.” 

They swayed together, and when Crowley moved to pull away, Az reached up and locked a hand at the back of his neck. 

“I don’t usually go in for much public kissing,” Az said slowly. “But I think — only if you want, of course — I think I might just combust if I don’t kiss you now.” 

“We wouldn’t want that,” Crowley mumbled. 

There was a shrill whistle from across the dance floor, and Crowley groaned against Az’s mouth. 

“I’m going to kill her,” Crowley said, and Az muffled his laugh against Crowley’s shoulder. Anathema caught his eye and grinned, giving him a cheery wave. 

“Cake first,” said Az, and it was Crowley’s turn to laugh. 

“Victoria sandwiches.” Warm lips landed on Az’s forehead. “Kept it simple. Besides I know you like them best, anyway.” 

_I want this forever,_ Az thought as Crowley walked away to retrieve the cakes. _I want you forever._

The next time Az kissed Crowley was on his front doorstep at one in the morning, and Crowley’s lips still tasted like strawberries and cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/mary_berrys_perfect_34317) is a recipe for a Victoria sandwich!


	7. Sourdough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three little words are finally said, and Az continues in his role as Warlock's gay godfather. A little more introspection in this chapter, but still all about the Soft (TM).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! 
> 
> Apologies for vanishing for almost two months. That was not intentional, but it was necessary due to the nature of my life at the moment. Regardless, I hope that you enjoy this chapter! One more to go before this is complete. 
> 
> I'm sorry that I still haven't answered some comments from previous chapters! I will get to them, but for now, please know that I have read them all and that everyone who leaves kudos or a comment has a very special place in my heart. 
> 
> (Also, in case you're interested: I am taking part in the Good Omens Mini-Bang, and the human AU I'm writing can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25237720/chapters/61177384)!)
> 
> Warnings: language

Crowley had taken the day off from the bakery, leaving Eric (and Adam, who had decided to learn the tricks of the trade in his spare time) in charge of the baking at Bentley’s. Eric was the second full-time baker at the shop — he was a nocturnal sort of fellow who always arrived at the bakery in the very early hours of morning to get started on the prep for the day’s selection of baked goods. He was in the habit of constantly new gravity-defying hairstyles for himself and stretching dark makeup to the ends of its abilities, and Az had grown quite fond of him over recent months. If the main reason for this fondness was that Eric gave Crowley’s schedule a bit more flexibility, Az wouldn’t have admitted to it. 

Az was leaning against the counter, sipping at his tea as he watched Crowley take over his kitchen table. Crowley had shown up at noon with a plastic container of some sort of sludge in his hand, and he’d dropped a quick kiss onto Az’s lips before starting to babble about the stuff in the container. 

“It’s a sourdough starter,” he’d said, bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. “I’m trying it out to see if sourdough loaves are something we can start to put out on a semi-regular basis at Bentley’s.” 

Az had allowed himself to be taken by the hand and dragged upstairs. He’d busied himself making tea while Crowley pulled a bag of flour and a rubber baking mat out of the cupboards in his kitchen — things which, it must be noted, were only there because Crowley had been spending more time in Az’s flat and occasionally had late-night cravings for biscuits and cakes. Now, he was only half-listening to Crowley’s explanation of the bacteria and yeast that had been growing in the plastic box for weeks. He might have felt badly about not giving Crowley’s excited babbling his undivided attention were it not for the fact that Crowley was the very thing distracting him from doing so. 

Crowley’s hands were pushing a very wet dough across a flour-covered baking mat, his biceps flexing underneath his shirtsleeves with every forward motion. There was a little bit of flour on his hairline, right where Crowley had brushed a wayward curl back behind his ear a few minutes earlier, and flecks of the stuff had also gotten onto the top of the gold rims of his eyeglasses. Crowley’s freckled cheeks were cut with dimples that shifted as he talked, his lips still smiling even as they formed the words. 

Az set his teacup down onto the counter with a sigh and said, “Crowley.” 

Crowley’s head snapped up, forehead creasing in concern. “Sorry, was I boring you? I can stop talking about this, y’know. Just have to ask, and we can talk about anything you wa—” 

“I’m in love with you,” Az said softly. 

Warm eyes, bright and honey-colored and beautiful, went almost comically wide. Az stayed still. He watched Crowley’s jaw work uselessly for a few moments, saw him swallow three times in quick succession. 

Inside of his chest, Az’s heart was losing blood. It was as though he’d poked holes in it with those words and was waiting for Crowley to say something that would patch them up. 

“Fuck  _ me, _ ” Crowley managed after a moment, his smoky voice rough with strain. And in spite of everything, Az started to laugh. 

“I would prefer not to, my dear.” 

Crowley made a strangled-sounding noise. His hands were still stuck in the dough, little sticky strands clinging to his fingers. 

“That’s not what I— Az, you can’t just— how can you just  _ say  _ that?” 

Something dark and slimy was curling itself around Az’s lungs. Breathing became slower, harder. Words were worse. 

“Because it’s true,” Az said after a moment. He forced himself not to drop his eyes, made himself hold Crowley’s gaze just a little longer. “I’m sorry if it’s too soon, or if you don’t feel the same, but it’s true.” 

“Fucking hell, Az, of course I—” Crowley bit off the end of his own sentence as he yanked his hands out of the dough. He waved them about, flinging bits of flour and yeast and water and bacteria to places where Az figured they’d never be found, his ears flaring red in a way that made the dark thing in Az’s chest begin to recede. “Of course I feel the same. Of course.” 

_ Of course.  _ The holes in Az’s heart began to seal themselves over, and Az felt his heart rate begin to normalize. It was almost strange, really, that things felt so fine. Crowley being in love with him had been, when Az had imagined it, almost scary. It had been a heavy thing, some kind of pressure. It had been beautiful, and Az had wanted it more than he’d wanted almost anything else in his entire life, but it had felt  _ different.  _

The reality wasn’t anything quite so dramatic. It was a safe sort of feeling, a comfortable thing. When Az pushed himself away from the counter, when he crossed to where Crowley was standing still with sourdough-covered hands, it felt easy. 

Crowley didn’t make any attempts to move toward Az. He let Az come to him, so Az kept moving until their bodies were separated by mere inches. Crowley’s warm eyes were shining like someone had thrown chips of silver and diamond into them, and he was grinning. 

Slowly, softly, Az reached up and threaded his fingers through Crowley’s curls. He pushed himself onto his toes at the same time that he pulled gently on the back of Crowley’s neck. Crowley went willingly, becoming the physical embodiment of motion. 

This kiss didn’t feel any different than the last one they’d shared (past midnight the night before, a lingering thing outside Az’s front door). Crowley couldn’t touch Az given the state of his hands, but he was pushing forward and down with every ounce of his being. It still had that tenderness, the gentleness that always made Az feel like he was worth something, like he was a thing of immeasurable worth. 

_ Maybe,  _ Az thought, pressing a smile against Crowley’s lips,  _ it doesn’t feel different because it’s been true for a while. The only thing that’s changed is that we know.  _

Crowley pulled away first, a trace of a laugh at the start of his words. “Gonna wash my hands. Want to do that again, if that’s okay.” 

“It’s far more than that, my darling,” Az said, and Crowley nearly tripped over his feet in his attempt to turn and give Az a brilliant smile. 

Crowley’s beautiful hands were clean in a minute. They were still damp when they found their way to both sides of Az’s face, but they were dry by the time they completed the journey down to Az’s hips. Crowley didn’t seem to feel inclined to stop kissing Az, his baking project all but forgotten. So Az allowed himself to be kissed, reveling in the soft words that Crowley whispered whenever they came up for air. 

The words were finally audible when Crowley moved his mouth upwards to press kisses to Az’s nose, forehead, hairline. 

“Love you. Angel, my angel. Love you.” 

“Oh, you beautiful man,” Az said, running his thumb over the ridge of Crowley’s cheekbone. “I love you, too.” 

The neglected sourdough was returned to eventually. Az watched Crowley work, finishing the last of his tea and deciding not to care that it had gone quite cold. After a few minutes of relative silence, Crowley started talking about the bread again, going on about the baking times and proving times and how every batch of sourdough would be a little bit different. He talked about the crust that he was hoping to get on it as he set the dough in a bowl to rise, saying that he’d try it in a Dutch oven this time but might use steam in the ovens at Bentley’s. 

The entire time Crowley spoke, he did so through a smile, and Az thought that he was the most beautiful thing in the world. 

Many hours later, Crowley set a loaf of fresh sourdough on the kitchen table and sliced into it. The crust crunched underneath his bread knife, and Crowley made a whooping noise. 

“Look!” A crumb of crust was pinched between Crowley’s fingers and thrust under Az’s nose. “Look at that crust, Az. It’s perfect.” 

Az stuck out his tongue and licked the crumb off of Crowley’s fingers. Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat, his ears turning red, so Az leaned in and kissed him. 

“Excellent, my dear,” Az said with a laugh. “Well done.” 

Crowley mumbled something under his breath, and when he picked up the knife again, his hands were trembling. 

They ate nearly half of the loaf, their shoulders pressed together as they sat at the table and fought over the best pieces. Droplets of butter — both the ordinary variety and something Crowley had made with cinnamon and honey whipped in — fell through the holes in the bread and landed on Az’s table, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Crowley was here, eating bread that he’d made in Az’s kitchen, wiping smears of butter off of Az’s chin and licking crumbs off of his own fingers with the type of manners that should have been appalling. 

It was terribly, beautifully domestic, and Az found himself thinking once again that he wanted this forever. He wanted Crowley to be close like this. He wanted Crowley to bake new things in a kitchen they shared, wanted Crowley to crawl into bed with flour caught in his hair and dusted over his freckles. He wanted to curl up with Crowley on the sofa, tangle his fingers with Crowley’s while they waited for the dough to rise or the biscuits to bake or the scones to cool. He wanted Crowley, with all of his baking-related chatter and dough-covered fingers and moments of flustered uncertainty. 

_ I want this forever,  _ Az had thought the night of the ball.  _ I want  _ **_you_ ** _ forever.  _ He’d known that it was impossible then, and he knew that it was impossible now. No one got forever. Everyone got a limited number of years, a deck of cards with no minimum but a somewhat ambiguous maximum. Forever was an impossibility, a dream that had no hope of ever coming true. 

But Az also knew that he didn’t want an unlimited number of years. No, what he wanted, what he craved, was that Crowley would be with him for  _ his  _ forever. He had enough yesterdays that had been spent without Crowley. Today, Crowley was here, laughing and teasing him and  _ loving him,  _ and that was what he wanted to fill his tomorrows. When Az thought of forever, he thought of the days (and weeks, and months, and years, if he lived a normal life) ahead of him, and he wanted Crowley in every single one. He wanted to be with Crowley in the good moments and in the bad, in the days of sunlight and rain, in the hours of words and of silence. 

_ For better, for worse.  _ The words struck through Az’s mind like lightning as he watched Crowley reach for another piece of bread.  _ For richer, for poorer.  _

Somewhere deep in his mind, in the core of his imagination, Az could see his future. He could feel Crowley with him years from now, still holding him tightly.  _ To have and to hold, from this day forward.  _ He could picture Crowley still kissing sugar off of his lips, and always, for their forever, being the man Az knew him to be. Az could see Crowley’s red curls taking on streaks of grey, the scars on Crowley’s hands and arms growing steadily in small numbers over years of baking, the freckles stretching over older skin.  _ To love and to cherish, til death do us part.  _

That was what he wanted, what he meant when he thought ‘forever.’ 

So Az looked at Crowley, shot him a grin and tucked a wayward curl back behind Crowley’s ear. Crowley grinned at him, the little hollows of his dimples carving shadows into his cheeks. And then Crowley took Az’s hand in his, and Az started to believe that forever might not be quite as impossible as people seemed to think. 

*********

When Az came back from lunch, Adam was sitting behind the counter with Warlock’s shop apron tied around his waist. He was thumbing through a paperback copy of  _ Slaughterhouse-Five  _ and humming to himself, a little smile on his lips. 

“Hi, Az,” Adam said without looking up. “Warlock’s in back. Restocking, I think.” 

“I’m surprised that you aren’t back there with him,” Az said casually, and Adam’s ears went red. A handful of days prior, Az had gone to the back room to retrieve a fresh roll of register paper and had found Adam and Warlock sharing oxygen. In the time since, he’d discovered that he derived a sadistic sort of pleasure from teasing the boys about this occurrence, which gave unfortunate credence to Crowley’s claim that he was a bit of a bastard. 

“I didn’t—” Adam started to protest, his blush growing darker with every passing moment. “I  _ don’t _ — we don’t usually—” 

Az laughed and patted Adam on the arm. “I know, I know. And actually, I’d hoped to find you here — Crowley’s looking for you.” 

“Shit.” 

“It would appear that you’re late for a lesson of some sort.” 

“ _ Shit, _ ” Adam said again. He tugged frantically at the knot on the back of the apron, pulling it over his head as soon as the strings came loose. “Where should I put…?” 

“Give it here,” Az said, stretching out his hand. With an extremely grateful smile, Adam thrust the apron into it and made a beeline for the door. 

He stopped short, his hand on the doorknob, and turned around. 

“Warlock,” Adam said tightly. “I told him I’d—” 

Az shook his head and pointed to the door. “I’ll tell him that you said goodbye. He’ll understand.” 

“And that I’ll see him tonight.” Adam was looking over Az’s shoulder like he was hoping that Warlock would step out of the back in time for him to convey the message himself. 

“Alright.” 

“At seven.” 

“Lovely,” Az said. “ _ Go. _ ” 

With another look of gratitude, Adam did. 

When Warlock emerged from the back room a few minutes later with his arms full of books, he was grinning. The beginnings of a sentence were already rolling off of his tongue, but at the sight of Az, he bit them back. 

“Adam had to leave for Bentley’s,” Az explained, giving him a soft smile. “He was running late, and it was only at my insistence that he left without saying goodbye.” 

“Oh,” Warlock said. He set the books down on the counter and grabbed his apron from Az’s hand. 

“I promised him that I would tell you on his behalf,” Az said. “So: Adam says goodbye, and he instructed me to tell you that he will see you tonight at seven.” 

“Oh,” Warlock said again, and this time, he was smiling. 

Az reached for the first stack of books and began to sort it by genre and author. “May I ask what you have planned for the evening, or is that an impertinent question?” 

Warlock snorted. “As if I wasn’t going to tell you afterward anyway.” 

There were times that Az fooled himself into thinking that the entirety of his heart belonged to Crowley. He would get caught up in a kiss, in Crowley’s words, in the look in Crowley’s eyes, and for that moment, he would feel like his heart was at capacity. No room for anyone or anything else. But those moments faded, and he realized that his heart had a great deal more space than he thought. It was a certain fact that Crowley occupied the parts of his heart that were designated for romantic love, and Crowley also had laid claim to decent-sized slices of the parts that held his love for friends and family. But there were other pieces in those parts, and Warlock had made a home in a large one of those pieces. Az loved Warlock with something that went beyond friendship, beyond mentorship. ‘A gay godfather,’ Warlock had said once, and Az occasionally felt the urge to take out an advert in the local newspaper just to inform strangers that he was such. 

A warm feeling spread through Az’s chest at Warlock’s words, and the piece of Az’s heart that belonged to Warlock got a little bit bigger. It didn’t take away from any other pieces, didn’t negate Az’s love for anyone or anything else, because Az’s heart always seemed to contain exactly the right amount of love. No upper limit, no hard stop. Az didn’t believe in loving too much, and so his heart never stopped finding space for more of it. 

“Well then,” Az said, a rough edge of emotion creeping into his voice, “tell me about tonight.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not personally made sourdough before (I bake many other kinds of bread, but have yet to do this one!), but [this](https://www.theclevercarrot.com/2014/01/sourdough-bread-a-beginners-guide/) recipe comes recommended from a friend.


	8. Scones (Always)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. Nearly five months after the first chapter was posted, and almost two months since the most recent update... we've finally reached the conclusion of this story. I hope that it is satisfactory, and I do apologize for the delay!
> 
> A few things to note about this chapter! The extraordinary novel _Maurice_ by E.M. Forster is briefly discussed toward the end. It is a wonderful work, and I love it beyond words, but the only thing you need to know about it for the purposes of this story is that it is a novel about a gay man in England during the beginning of the 20th century, and that the author was himself a gay man who lived in England during the 20th century. As for chapter-specific warnings: language (as always), as well as the use of the word "queer" as an identity/descriptor. 
> 
> Now. To those of you who have been following this story since April, or those of you who came in part-way through, or those of you who only found it after its completion: thank you for reading this silly-soft story about awkward conversations and baked goods and extravagant balls and gentle domesticity. I hope that you have enjoyed it, and I am immeasurably grateful for the love and kindness that you have given to me because of this fic. I know things are strange and uncertain right now, so please know that I am always willing to talk if you need additional support. I'll also be around writing more stories about Aziraphale and Crowley for (as far as I know) a very long time, and while I can't always promise the level of softness that is present in this fic, I _can_ and will always promise a happy ending. 
> 
> Thank you for existing, for reading, and for helping me through what has been a dark few months with your comments. I hope you are well. 
> 
> Love always,  
> Hope

“I’ve never seen you and Crowley fight.” Warlock dug his hand into the bag of frozen (or, more accurately, formerly-frozen) peas that sat between himself and Az on the bench. He pulled out a small handful and shook his wrist, letting the peas settle into his palm before tossing them a few at a time toward the ducks that had gathered by the edge of the pond. 

Az frowned at him. There was something heavy in Warlock’s voice, and he was resolutely _not_ meeting Az’s eyes. As Az scrutinized him, Warlock sighed and threw the remaining peas in his hand to the ducks. 

“You may not have seen it, my dear boy, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.” Az kept his tone neutral and settled against the back of the bench, waiting. 

“It’s happened, then?” 

“Of course.” One of the ducks quacked indignantly, so Az grabbed a handful of peas and tossed them into the grass. “I suppose I would call them disagreements — the word ‘fight’ implies that there were raised voices, and Crowley and I both make a point not to shout. But yes, we have had disagreements. Multiple, in fact.” 

“You just…” Warlock trailed off, scuffing the toe of his black boot against the gravel under the bench. “You both just seem to have it together, y’know? You’re the golden couple.”

Az chuckled. “I’m not certain there is such a thing.” 

“You know what I mean,” Warlock said, voice laced with more than a small amount of frustration. “He loves you, yeah? Everyone can tell. And you love him, and everyone can tell that, too.” 

“Loving someone isn’t contingent upon agreeing with them,” said Az. “Even the happiest of relationships have some degree of conflict. If you can’t resolve it, that’s one thing, and if the majority of the time you spend together is spent arguing, that’s not by any means a sign of a healthy adult partnership. But a certain amount of disagreement is to be expected, and learning how to resolve those inevitable arguments is part of loving someone.” 

Warlock kicked at the ground again. “Right.” 

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with Adam, then?” 

A silver-pierced eyebrow curved upward. “What?” 

“Come now, my dear fellow. I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re dancing around asking me an important question.” Az scattered another handful of peas and wiped his damp fingers on the knee of his trousers. “Out with it.” 

“He told me he loved me,” Warlock said to his shoes. 

“Oh?” 

“I, uh. Didn’t say it back.” 

It was Az’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I see. May I ask why?” 

“It’s not that I _don’t,_ you know?” A pale hand buried itself in long ink-black hair, tugging at it. “It’s just… we never did that when I was growing up. It wasn’t a _thing._ I think my mum said it once or twice when I was younger, but from then on it was sorta just implied.” 

“Did you explain that to Adam?” 

“I tried.” 

“And he didn’t take it well?” Az felt himself frowning. From what he knew of Adam (which, because of Crowley, was quite a lot), this seemed out of character. 

“I… no, it wasn’t that. I just couldn’t get the words out.” 

“What did you say when he told you?” 

Warlock turned the color of a ripe strawberry and said, “I think I said, ‘Oh.’” 

“Ah.” 

“And he said he wasn’t expecting me to say it back, but I could tell he was a bit sad, so I tried to explain that I wanted to say it back but hadn’t had much practice.” Warlock’s breath was coming in quicker bursts now, and his fingers were drumming on the tops of his thighs. Not for the first time, he reminded Az of Crowley. “But I ended up just saying that I couldn’t say it, and I think he thought that I don’t _feel_ it, y’know? So he said he’d give me some space, and he left.” 

“When was this?”

“Yesterday,” Warlock said miserably. 

“Have you spoken to him?” 

“Texted him this morning, yeah. No reply yet.” 

“Ah.” 

“I just… I don’t know what to do, Az.” 

Az tilted his head back and watched the summer breeze shake the branches of the tree above him. “May I ask you a question?” 

“Yeah, ‘course.” 

“You said that you don’t _not_ love Adam,” Az began slowly. “But that isn’t precisely an answer to the question of whether or not you _do_ love him, so I think we should start by clarifying where you stand on that whole affair.” 

Warlock went as still as a statue. When Az looked over at him, he couldn’t quite tell if he was even breathing. 

Finally, Warlock said, “Is it bad if I don’t know?” 

Az hummed. “I suppose it depends on why you’re unsure.” 

“I don’t know what it feels like to be in love, okay?” The words fell out of Warlock’s mouth in a rush, and he blinked as though he hadn’t quite meant to say them. “Adam’s just… he’s so fucking _expressive,_ you know? He’ll tell you exactly what he’s thinking, and he feels things so deeply, and I can’t understand how he copes with all of that. How is he not drowning in his own head? I can’t make sense of my feelings about, about his fucking _music taste,_ for Christ’s sake. How am I supposed to know if I love him or not?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you whether or not you love him,” Az said. Warlock groaned and shoved his face into his hands. “Not definitively, anyway.” 

“How’d you know you love Crowley?” The question was muffled by Warlock’s palms, and Az stifled a smile. 

“Oh, well.” A duck was starting to waddle close to their bench, looking quite put-out by the sudden lack of treats, so Az emptied the remaining contents of the bag into the grass. “That’s a good question, I suppose.” 

“I hate feelings,” Warlock said against his fingers. 

“They are rather tricky, yes. As to how I figured out that I love Crowley: I think it started with the realization that every time I thought of my future, he was a part of it.” 

“Huh.” Warlock took his head out of his hands. “What else?” 

“I should warn you that this is not by any means an instruction manual,” Az said quickly. “Everyone is different, you know.” 

“I know,” Warlock said. “What else?” 

“Waking up next to Crowley is wonderful in a way that nothing else quite matches,” Az said, cheeks warming at the memory of doing exactly that just this morning. “And the first time I did it, I knew that I never wanted to wake up without him again if I could help it.” 

“What else?” 

“I want to do things for him, things that make him happy or make him laugh. I want to care for him when he needs to be cared for, reassure him when he needs to be reassured. And when I have bad days, he’s the first person I want to see. When I have a story to tell, he’s the first person I want to tell it to.” Warlock was staring at Az now, a small amount of light rising in his dark eyes. “And when we argue, I want to talk to him about why, and I want to understand what went wrong. And I know that he wants those things, too, so we talk.” 

“Oh,” said Warlock. 

“The reasons I love Crowley are too many to count,” Az said, giving Warlock’s shoulder a squeeze, “as are the reasons why I know that I love him. But I can keep providing examples, if it would help you.” 

“No,” Warlock said, and Az smiled at him. “No, I think… I think I’m okay, yeah. I think I— goddammit. Fuck.” 

“You can take as much time as you need to sort out your feelings, my dear, but I do think you ought to talk to Adam about it.” 

“I think I’ve got them sorted. Maybe. I hope.” 

“Have you?” 

Warlock slumped down on the bench with an exaggerated sigh, his head lolling to the side so he could face Az. Warlock’s smiles were often small things (unless he was around Adam or teasing Az), but this one was wider than normal. Shaky, yes, but bright. 

“I think I love him,” Warlock said, and to Az’s surprise, his voice didn’t shake. “I mean, look. I dunno if I’m gonna be with him forever, because we’re still young and life can be complete fucking bullshit a lot of the time.” 

“It can, yes,” Az laughed. 

Warlock smiled still wider. The smile stayed on his face for a mere handful of seconds before slipping away, making room for a far more serious expression.

“But I think— no, I _know_ — I’d like to be with him for as long as I can be.” Warlock looked Az in the eye, steady and sure. “Still, I haven’t got all of the specifics of everything else figured out, y’know? And it’s probably pathetic that I’m only realizing I love my boyfriend while I’m sat here on a bench in a park talking it over with my bloody _boss,_ but. Is what it is.” 

“It’s not pathetic.” 

Warlock gave another dry chuckle. “Isn’t it?” 

“No,” Az said sternly. “It isn’t. We all need people to talk to sometimes, and I’ve told you a dozen times before that I’m perfectly happy to—” 

“Be my gay godfather,” Warlock said with a quick upward twist of his lips. “Yeah.” 

“Indeed.” 

Warlock shifted on the bench once more, hauling himself back up into something that resembled a normal sitting position (and consequently made Az much less worried about the state of the poor boy’s spine). He was quiet for a moment before sighing again and saying, “I still hate feelings.” 

“I don’t imagine that particular sentiment is likely to change,” Az said, patting Warlock’s thigh in a way he hoped was comforting.

“Well, fuck.” 

Az laughed. “Rather.” 

The ducks had finally realized that the two large featherless ducks on the bench were not going to be providing any more peas and had begun to venture back into the pond. Az watched them for a moment. He was sure that he and Warlock should be getting back to the shop — it was almost certainly past time to re-open for the afternoon — but something stopped him. 

“He is good for you, you know,” Az said gently. “Adam.” 

Warlock groaned. “I know.” 

“And I want you to know something very important, alright?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I am sorry that you haven’t had as much experience with being told that you are loved as you should have done,” Az said, and Warlock stiffened. “But I hope you know that I— well, Crowley and I both, really — love you very dearly.” 

“Shut up,” Warlock mumbled. “You do not.” 

“I _do._ I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” 

“Ngh,” Warlock grunted, face reddening more with each passing moment. 

“You are a remarkable person, and I am very happy to have you as my queer godson,” Az said firmly, stifling a laugh at the sight of Warlock’s wide-eyed stare. “And I love you like family, do you understand?” 

“Huh,” Warlock managed to choke out. “Yeah.” 

“Good.” Az nodded to himself, took a deep breath, and continued. “There’s something else I’d like to discuss with you as well, if you’re open to it.” 

“Oh?” 

“I know you aren’t precisely fond of Alton,” Az said, trying very hard to keep his voice level, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if you decided one day to take your leave of it, but I wanted to make you a job offer.” 

Warlock’s brow crinkled. “What?” 

“You’ll have noticed, I’m sure, that the sign on the shop says ‘A.Z. Fell and Co. Booksellers.’” 

“Yeah.” 

“As it happens,” Az said slowly, “there isn’t precisely an ‘and Co.,’ as such.” 

“What about Crowley?” 

Az chuckled. “He is certainly my partner in life, but not in business. I think the poor man would die if I kept him away from his ovens for more than a day at a time.” 

“Mm,” Warlock said, sounding slightly strangled. “Ah.” 

“So,” Az continued, “I was rather wondering if you would be interested in a more, shall we say, _permanent_ position at the shop.”

“What?”

“I’d like you to be my business partner, if that’s something you’d be open to discussing further.” 

Warlock made a squeaking noise but didn’t reply. 

“There is no pressure on you to say yes,” Az said. “It’s merely an offer. And I’m not sure how the legality of it all would work, but I suppose I can ask Anathema and Crowley. They’ve been partners for years.” 

“You…” Warlock swallowed hard. “You want me to be- at _your shop,_ you want me to be…?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you know it nearly as well as I do, nowadays. And I’d like to take full days off now and again — take Crowley down to London for a weekend, things like that. Also, I think you have more than earned yourself a raise.” 

“Oh,” said Warlock. 

“And, in all honesty, I’d rather like to have you around to help with the finances.” 

Warlock laughed at that, tight and high. “Yeah. Not great with maths, are you?” 

“I am not.”

“Gay of you,” Warlock teased. 

“Yes, alright, that’s quite enough of that.” The words sounded like a reprimand, but Az’s grin dulled their sharp edges. 

There was a pause, and then Warlock met Az’s eyes once again and asked, “You really mean this, don’t you?” 

“I really do.” 

“Oh,” Warlock said. “Right.” 

“You may have as long as you like to think it over. As I’ve said, there is no pressure for you to agree. It’s simply been on my mind, and I thought I woul—” 

“I’m in,” Warlock interrupted. “Yes. Yes, yeah.”

Az beamed. “Are you really?” 

“Yeah, Az. Really.” 

“Well in that case,” Az said as he climbed to his feet, “we had better get back to our shop, hadn’t we? We’re running quite a bit behind schedule.” 

Az had planned to start walking toward the shop, but his attempt to do so was put on hold when he found himself with an armful of dark-haired twenty-something boy. Warlock’s arms were around Az’s shoulders, squeezing tightly, so Az put his own arms around Warlock’s thin torso and squeezed back.

On the walk back to the bookshop, Warlock mumbled, “Oh, shit. Love you too, you know?”, and Az couldn’t stop himself from smiling. 

*********

Mornings were soft, sometimes. 

On most days, though, they weren’t. Crowley’s alarm would ring out at three-thirty in the morning, and the warm weight against Az’s back would shift away. Oftentimes Crowley would grumble curses as he threw back the covers, the sound shaking Az out of the place between sleep and waking. Az would lie there and listen to the sleep-rough timbre of Crowley’s voice, and he’d smile to himself when Crowley’s lips landed on his forehead (or in his hair, or on the swell of his cheek, or on the corner of his mouth). Crowley always kissed him twice before he left for work: once when he got out of bed, and once when the gentle sounds of his dressing and washing and brushing had gone silent, just before he slipped out the door. 

But some mornings were different. On those mornings, the world was warm and soft and clear, and Az and Crowley could both feel it. Crowley would turn off his alarm and curl back against Az, draping a freckled arm back over Az’s middle and pulling their bodies together. He would press kisses to the back of Az’s neck, shoulders, arms. Sometimes Az could feel Crowley’s smile against his skin, the curling crooked shape of those beautiful lips. 

They would lay like that for a while, until Crowley knew that he was going to be late, and then Az would turn over in Crowley’s arms and ask if he needed an escort to work. Crowley would grin, bright and tender, and say, “I think I just might.” 

Az would crawl out of bed, and he and Crowley would dress together in silence. There were always little touches — Crowley’s hand on Az’s elbow, Az reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind Crowley’s ear, two sets of hands meeting to straighten Az’s bowtie — and Az could almost taste the sweetness of them, like warm sugar on his tongue. They would walk to the bakery with their hands locked together, and when they got to Bentley’s, Az would sit on a stool at the end of a long steel table and watch Crowley work. 

Eric was there most days, and Az had gotten to know him a bit better over the course of these soft-feeling mornings. He’d taught Az how to make coffee the way that Crowley liked it, so Az had quietly given himself the job of doing so whenever he was able. Each time that Az accompanied Crowley to Bentley’s, he would excuse himself to the kitchenette and prepare two stainless-steel insulated thermoses of the bitter liquid for the bakers and a large cup of sweetened tea for himself. And then he would go back into the main part of the kitchen, settle himself on his stool, and busy himself with cataloguing every beautiful piece of Crowley. 

It was silly, really, that Az was still so transfixed by everything that made Crowley _Crowley._ Even after all the time he’d been calling Crowley his, after these many months that now had stretched past a year, the sudden rush of joy at the sight of Crowley hadn’t gone away. It hadn’t even faded, so far as Az could tell, and that was something of a miracle. Some part of Az had thought that looking at, being with, and loving Crowley would become mundane, but it hadn’t. These things were normal to him now, yes, and they weren’t notable events by any stretch of the imagination, but still they were far from ordinary. Instead, his heart had decided that urgent flashes of love would be a part of his daily routine, that a dry mouth at the sight of Crowley’s hair would happen frequently, and that the blush in his cheeks whenever Crowley kissed him would burn each and every time. And Az’s heart had determined that things like this were to be expected and not to be worried over, and so the things that Az had thought would become rare had not. They were normal, but they remained extraordinary, and some part of Az knew that he would never cease to be captivated by Crowley. 

Today was one of those soft mornings, and Az was fixated on Crowley’s hands. He had always liked them, had spent countless hours studying them, but they seemed to be imbued with a certain type of magic when Crowley was baking. They were the tools that Crowley used to cut and stir and shape and mold and glaze and frost, the conductors that allowed the brilliance within Crowley’s soul to take physical form. Crowley’s hands were gentle and strong, and they made order out of chaos, and Az loved them. He loved that he had held them (and loved that he would do so again). And when he thought of the way Crowley touched _him,_ like he was something precious and beautiful, his heart felt overwarm and tight. Those hands, Crowley’s hands, were the shape of safety. 

They were covered in flour at the moment, but Az knew that the skin on the back of them was freckled and scarred and dusted lightly with hair near the wrist. He knew that the fingernails that were buried deep in dough were cut short, trimmed in a rush just yesterday night with a pair of clippers that, as far as Crowley knew, had no particular point of origin (“They’ve always just kinda been there,” Crowley had said once as he tossed them back into a drawer, and Az had laughed). He knew that the undersides of Crowley’s hands carried scars as well, scratching blank lines through his handprints. He also knew that Crowley’s fingers, which were currently patting dough into a flat circle, had the ability to make his heart rate double any time they came into contact with any part of his skin. Whenever Crowley cupped Az’s jaw, brushed a thumb over his lips, rubbed circles into his hip, Az’s heart would take off at a gallop and not slow down until it was near breaking. 

Az knew Crowley’s hands like he knew his own, but they were still a hundred kinds of beautiful. 

“What are you making at the moment, dearest?” Az asked after a while, setting his now-empty cup of tea down onto the work table. 

Crowley’s lips curled upward at the corners. “Scones.” 

“Mm,” Az said. “What kind?” 

“A few dozen of the plain ones, of course,” Crowley said as he began punching circles out of the thick slab of dough on the tabletop, “and I thought I might put some chocolate chunks into the other half of the mix.” 

Az leaned forward and rested his head on his hands, smiling up at Crowley and feeling thrillingly young. “And which variety will _I_ be getting from you this morning, my love?” 

Crowley’s cheeks went pink under his freckles at the endearment, and he turned his head away to hide a shy smile. He was, Az knew, just as in love with Az as Az was with him. It was good to know, good to see it written out so plainly on that handsome face. 

“Whatever y’want,” Crowley mumbled. He punched circles faster now, moving down the table with practiced ease. 

“That’s not how this works, you know.” Crowley still chose pastries for him whenever he came to the bakery. It was tradition by now, sacred in its simplicity. 

“I, uh. Hmm.” This last noise was a happy hum, one of the ones that Az knew rumbled through Crowley’s chest and made even the coldest air feel warm. “Regular, then. With cream and jam — Ana made some early on in the week. Strawberry.” 

“Just like the first time,” Az said with a small smile. 

Crowley’s head snapped in his direction. “What?” 

“The first time we met, you and Anathema brought me scones with cream and strawberry jam,” said Az. “I was… well, I was fairly enchanted with you, my dear.” 

Crowley huffed out something close to a laugh as he slid round circles of dough onto a large metal sheet. He began to brush them with milk, a crimson blush raging across his cheeks, and Az’s gaze settled once more on his hands. 

Across the kitchen, Eric made a scoffing noise. When Az looked over at him, he was sliding rolls of bread into one of the bakery’s three ovens and trying very hard not to laugh. 

“Got something to say, mate?” Crowley asked Eric in a near-growl. “Something to add?” 

“Nah,” Eric said, flashing Az a quick smile. He’d put dark lipstick on today and was wearing his hair in two spikes that almost resembled bunny ears. “Just that Az must’ve been very impressed by your verbal skills that first meeting, boss.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I’ve heard the story,” Eric said. “Ana told me the morning after it happened, y’know? And she’s never really dropped it since—” 

“Shut _up,_ ” Crowley said again. 

“For what it’s worth,” Az said, rising from his seat to rest a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, “I was so taken in with my love’s beauty — those freckles, those cheekbones, those _eyes_ … good Lord — that I forgot to introduce myself.”

Crowley grinned. “You did, didn’t you?” 

Az was beginning to regret coming to his defense. 

“Yes, but you couldn’t even get a full sentence out, darling,” Az reminded him sweetly, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s shoulder in the space between his own finger and thumb. Crowley’s skin was warm beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. “It would seem that we both made ourselves into fools that day.”

This time, Eric did laugh. “I believe I remember the exact quote of the thing Crowley said, now I’m thinking about it.” 

“Shut it,” Crowley said, but there was no sincerity behind it anymore. 

“Mm,” Eric said as he closed the door to the oven. He set his hands on his waist and leaned back, smiling. “Ah, yes, the words— sorry, _word,_ of that moment was ‘Scones.’” 

“I hate you,” Crowley grumbled. 

“You don’t,” chirped Eric. 

“Could fire you.” 

“Not without cause,” Eric said. 

“Bullying?” Crowley offered. “Cruel and unusual punishment?” 

“Oh, hush,” Az chided him gently, pressing another kiss to Crowley’s arm. “I thought it was charming.” 

Eric coughed, smirking, and Az thought that he might have caught the word “Bullshit” in that cough. Az rolled his eyes, which set Eric off once more into peals of laughter. 

Crowley twisted sideways to kiss the top of Az’s head before moving away to slide the tray of scones into the oven. “Thanks, angel.” 

The next hour passed quickly. Az returned to his stool and watched Crowley move around the kitchen, fluid and controlled, every motion precise. He was in sharp contrast to Anathema, who barreled through the back door at quarter-past four, a tornado of color and loud noises. She was dragging a shuffling Newt by the hand (Az wasn’t sure if Newt’s feet were actually on the ground at any point — it was as if Anathema was simply yanking him through the air as she whirled around saying good morning to everyone in the kitchen), and Newt gave Az a slightly fuzzy-eyed smile. When Adam entered the kitchen fifteen minutes later, Eric slid a list of tasks toward him and, still smiling, told him to get his ass into gear. Az waved at Pepper and Brian as they walked through the back of the bakery toward the shop in front, and shortly before five, he got up to make himself a second cup of tea.

The first batch of scones had long since come out of the oven. Crowley grabbed one before Anathema and Newt could whisk them away to the front, dodging out of the way as Anathema half-heartedly swatted at his hand. 

“We’re supposed to sell those, you know,” she called after him. 

Crowley, as usual, ignored her. 

The scone was set on a chipped ceramic plate and smeared with a healthy serving of clotted cream and fresh strawberry jam. Az watched Crowley prepare it, unable to stop himself from smiling. And when Crowley set the scone down in front of him with a triumphant grin, the only thing that Az could think to do in response was kiss him, so he did. Full on the mouth, in front of Eric and Adam, but Az couldn’t bring himself to care. 

They broke apart after a brief moment, but Az left his hand on the back of Crowley’s head for a few seconds longer. He toyed with a frizzy curl that had escaped from Crowley’s bun, stroking gently over the skin at the nape of Crowley’s neck. 

“Nghn,” Crowley said, golden eyes locked on Az’s. The shiny frames of his glasses glinted in the kitchen light. “Uh.” 

“I love you,” Az said, feeling the edges of the now-familiar words against his tongue and teeth. 

Crowley ducked his head down and kissed the top of Az’s head, his nose buried among white curls. And then he nudged the plate on the table with one long finger and said, “Scone.” 

*********

Anthony James Crowley was, in the opinion of some of the villagers of Alton, quite a bit of a ‘flash bastard.’ He drove a motorcycle, wore his red curly hair up in a modern atrocity called a man-bun, and dressed in dark-colored clothes that fit so tightly it should have been impossible for him to get them on and off. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and played classic rock in the bakery he owned with his sarcastic and unceasingly blunt best friend, Anathema Device. He had a loud laugh and a swaggering walk, and he’d once thrown an Austen-era ball for his boyfriend’s birthday. He was a man who, on an aesthetic level at least, did not at all fit into the quiet village he lived in. 

Somehow, though, even the people who thought he was flash and strange and noisy came to love him. He was wonderful like that. 

Crowley’s boyfriend was his opposite in nearly every respect. Az Fell was a pale-haired former professor who had moved to Alton to open a bookshop and lead a quiet life. He dressed in well-worn fabrics that were dyed in light colors, and he spoke with the vocabulary and cadence of someone twice his age. He enjoyed classical music, hated the taste of coffee, and was fairly soft-spoken and even-tempered. And for some reason, the man he had chosen to spend his life with was Crowley. 

The night that Az Fell proposed to Anthony Crowley was devoid of grand gestures and flashy displays. It wasn’t exactly _planned,_ and Az had not gone into the evening with the intention of asking Crowley to marry him. It was a quiet thing, and it was also everything. 

Az had been in the habit of reading before he went to sleep for as long as he could remember. This hadn’t changed when he and Crowley had begun to sleep in the same bed; it had simply taken on a new form. Instead of reading silently as he had done for years, Az would pull Crowley’s head against his chest and read out loud. 

On this particular night, the book in Az’s hand was _Maurice_ by E.M. Forster. Az was reading slowly, varying his voice to draw distinction between Clive and Maurice as he worked his way through the final pages. 

“‘He did not realize that this was the end, without twilight or compromise,’” Az read, and Crowley’s face turned upward, honey-brown eyes studying his face, “‘that he should never cross Maurice’s track again nor speak to those who had seen him. He waited for a little in the alley, then returned to the house to correct his proofs and to devise some method of concealing the truth from Anne.’”

Sighing happily, Az closed the book with a soft snap and brushed his fingers over the cover. 

“Oh,” Crowley said softly. “Oh, shit.” 

Az chuckled lightly as he set _Maurice_ on the table by his bed and switched off the lamp. The room was plunged into darkness, but Crowley didn’t move to lift his head off of Az’s chest and settle under the covers as he usually did. 

“Are you alright, my love?” Az asked, running a hand through Crowley’s curls. They were loose, hanging down past his shoulders, and Az wound his fingers through them. 

“Yeah,” Crowley answered after a moment. “Yeah, just… Forster.” 

“What about him?” 

“He was like us, you know? Queer. But he couldn’t be like we are. He couldn’t have this.” One of Crowley’s hands slipped around to rest against Az’s hip, pressed into it. “And _Maurice_ feels like— I don’t know what it feels like, but it _does,_ you know?” 

“I think it feels like looking at his heart,” Az said. He remembered the way that he’d felt the first time he’d finished reading _Maurice,_ and a little part of him was thrilled at the knowledge that Crowley felt it, too. 

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, that. That exactly.” 

“But it ends well, my dear.” Az stroked the freckled skin at the base of Crowley’s neck, brushing a hand over strong shoulders. “Forster was very intentional about that. He said he wouldn’t have written a book about homosexual love without giving it a happy ending.” 

“I know.” Crowley was slightly tense, and Az could almost hear the thoughts crashing about in his head. 

“What is it, then?” 

“It just feels so impossible sometimes,” Crowley said, a jumbled pile of letters amidst his scattered breaths. “Us, this. It feels like a dream, you know? And _Maurice…_ Forster… it makes me realize why it doesn’t feel real. Because not that long ago, it couldn’t have been real. _We_ couldn’t have been real.” 

“Oh, darling.” 

“The ending of the book’s all well and good until you realize that it was actually fiction, that people like us don’t get happy endings.” 

Az reached over and turned the lamp on again, bathing the bedroom in a warm yellow glow. Crowley was curled into the side of his chest, eyes wide and vulnerable, and Az loved him.

“People like us _do_ get happy endings,” Az said, forcing sincerity and weight behind every syllable. “We do.” 

Crowley made a non-committal noise, and the realization hit Az like a truck: Crowley was afraid. 

Once, many months ago, Crowley had told Az about his previous relationships. _‘I have a history of people not wanting to be with me publicly. ‘S just what I’m used to.’_ And Crowley had gone to therapy, and he’d slowly learned not to accept less love than he deserved, but that didn’t mean that his memories of being kept in the shadows were any less painful. Sometimes (rarely, but still _sometimes_ ) Az would catch Crowley studying him, checking to see if his affection was real, and something inside of Az would ache for him. 

“Do you remember the night of the ball, my dearest?”

Crowley muffled a snort in Az’s shoulder. “Yeah, ‘course.” 

“You said that men like us could have an Austenian romance, even if only for one night.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said again.

“And I am grateful for that night, and I am impossibly in love with you for even having the idea to put it together for me.” Crowley responded with an unintelligible collection of consonants, and Az kissed the top of his head. “But the trouble is that I don’t want one night of romance with you.” 

Crowley lifted his head away from Az’s body, head cocked to one side. “What?” 

“I’m not asking you to turn our relationship into something from the eighteenth century, darling,” Az clarified. “I’m simply saying that I believe— that _you_ have made me believe, in fact— that men like us can have happy endings.” 

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Angel, I—” 

Az shook his head and pressed his fingers softly to Crowley’s lips, stopping his words. 

“Specifically, my most beautiful love, I believe that _you and I_ can have a happy ending. We deserve one. We should have the life we want, the life that people like us should have always been able to lead. I want that with you, do you understand? I want everything with you, my dear. I want you always.” 

Crowley stared at him, mouth fallen slightly open. 

“Angel,” Crowley began breathlessly, “what the hell are you on about?” 

Without thinking, without giving himself time to wonder if he should say this here, if he should say this now, Az brought his hands up to the sides of Crowley’s face and said, “Marry me.” 

Crowley’s eyes went alarmingly wide, and for a fraction of a second Az was afraid that he would say no, that he would climb out of bed and storm away, angry that Az would suggest such a thing. 

But then Crowley was climbing fully into Az’s lap, and he was grinning, and he was saying, “Yes, okay, yes.” 

“I don’t have a ring,” Az said dumbly. His brain was filled with static because Crowley had said _yes,_ because Crowley was his _fiancé_ now, and what was he supposed to do with that? 

Crowley kissed him, crushing a laugh between their mouths. 

“I’m serious,” Az breathed when they broke apart, “I really don’t have a ring. I should do, I suppose, but I hadn’t gotten the chance to go down to the jeweler's yet, and—” 

“‘S okay.” Crowley’s breath skated across Az’s lips as he spoke. “I do.” 

Az jerked his head backward to get a better look at Crowley’s face and wound up slamming it into the headboard. 

“You what?” 

Crowley’s eyebrows pinched together in concern, his long fingers pressing at the spot where Az had hit his head. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Az said quickly. “You _what?_ ” 

“Got a ring,” Crowley repeated, voice nonchalant as he settled back against Az’s thighs. “It’s in my drawer in the dresser. IBring it to you in the morning, if that’s good by you.” 

“Wh- how long have you had it?” 

Crowley shrugged and looped his arms around Az’s neck. “Couple weeks.” 

“What?” 

“I had a thing planned,” Crowley said casually. He kissed Az on the forehead. “Should probably text Ana, actually. She can still take some of the stuff back.” 

Az flushed. “I’m terribly sorry that I ruined your plans, darling.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“I _did,_ although I must admit that I don’t regret it.” 

Crowley shook his head. He reached for Az’s face, tilting it up toward him. 

“This was so much better than anything I could’ve come up with.” 

Az’s cheeks felt like someone had lit them on fire. He tried to say something, wanting very desperately to have some clever response to that, but Crowley didn’t give him a chance. Crowley’s lips captured Az’s once more, slotting their mouths together in a kiss that was as tender and certain and all-encompassing as any they had ever shared. 

“I love you,” Crowley said after a moment, resting his nose against Az’s forehead. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Az whispered. He pressed his lips to the underside of Crowley’s jaw, nosing at the freckles there. Crowley shivered. “And I will keep loving you for as long as I can, with all of myself.” 

Crowley made a pleased-sounding humming noise, and Az felt like he was flying. 

A few minutes later, Crowley slid off of Az’s lap and reached over to turn out the light. This time, he did get under the covers and rest his head against the pillow, pulling Az down with him as he went. 

“You’re the one thing I’m sure of,” Crowley murmured. “The one thing in my whole life I’ve ever been sure of.” 

Az nuzzled the place at the base of Crowley’s throat. When he had first met Crowley, he had struggled with words. He had stuttered and stumbled his way through the simplest sentences, and yet Crowley had wanted him anyway. 

Now, though, in the darkness, Az found his tongue.

“I am sure of you, too, my dearest. And if there is one thing I know for certain about you, wonderfully unpredictable as you are, it is that I am wholly and utterly overwhelmed by you. I am lost in you and all that you are, and I never want to be found.” 

Crowley’s skin warmed with a blush, and Az snuggled impossibly closer. 

“You sound like a bloody poet,” Crowley said. 

Az laughed into Crowley’s neck. “I love you.” 

“So you’ve said.” 

“I _love_ you.” 

“Angel.” 

“I,” Az said, wriggling upward so that he could press his lips to Crowley’s. “Love.” Kiss. “You.” 

Crowley said it back in a low whisper, lips brushing against Az’s in near-kisses with every word. 

_Sometimes,_ Az thought as he turned over and felt Crowley curl against his back, _there are soft things. Sometimes there are great loves and unbroken promises. Sometimes there are scones and freckles and kisses._

_Sometimes, against all odds, there are happy endings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://www.twopeasandtheirpod.com/chocolate-chip-scones/) is an excellent recipe for chocolate chip scones (which are almost-but-not-quite what Crowley is considering making in the bakery scene)! It's all in American measurements - sorry, my beautiful non-American readers. I have made these scones myself many times over the past few months and thus can vouch for their deliciousness. My tips: use mini chocolate chips instead of regular-sized ones, and make sure to freeze them for at least 20 minutes before baking!
> 
> That's the last recipe you'll be getting from me! Please, if you ever make any of the goodies suggested in these end notes, let me know in the comments or on [Tumblr!](https://hope-inthedark.tumblr.com/)
> 
> One final note: part of the reason that this took so long to finish was because I have been writing another Good Omens human AU as part of the DIWS Events Mini-Bang. You can find that fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25237720/chapters/61177384), if you'd like! Thank you for all of your kindness and love, my dears.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hope-inthedark)
> 
> Also, if you would like to make any sort of creative work (art, podfic, whatever) based on this or any of my stories, consider this blanket permission to do so! I only ask that you would tag me in your work so that I can see it and share it! Thank you for being here, and thank you for reading. I hope you are having the best day!


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